Earth moans for their harrow and wheel. 
To Thee we appeal. 
 
They boast, though their triumph Hell’s gift is, 
On Africa’s desperate sons : 
“ Our thousands have conquered their fifties ; 
Our twenties have murdered their ones.” 
That glory—that shame—let them trumpet 
To Europe’s unquickening ear. 
List Thou to the boast of the strumpet ! 
Lend Thou, Thou indignant, an ear ! 
Then—shall they not fear ? 
 
O Lord, to Thy strength in the thunder, 
Thy chariot-wheels in the war, 
We, Ireland, look upward and wonder, 
The Sword of Thee smiting before. 
In the hour of Revolt that burns nigher 
Each hour as it leaps to the sky, 
We look to Thee, Lord for Thy Fire ; 
We look—shall Thy Justice deny ? 
Well, can we not die ? 
 
But Thou, Thou shalt fall from the heaven 
As hail on the furious host. 
I see them :  their legions are driven ; 
Their cohorts are broken and lost.
 
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