The Land of the True and Brave

I am the sun, the orb of light, I proudly rule the day,

And boldly take from Adam down that potent brilliant sway,

I wander o’er the mountains and I view the nations all,

I peep into the cottage and the stately mansioned hall,

I regulate the seasons and the planets do not dare,

To approach me as an equal, or salute me in the air,

I penetrate the desert and the subterranean cave,

But find no place like Erin dear, the Land of the True and Brave.

When I awake each morning from the pillow of my rest,

I hasten like an arrow to that island of the west,

’Tis there the lovely odour of its verdant plains so sweet,

Is ascending like an angel to pay homage at my feet,

The beam of my affection in return I bestow,

On the saintly little Eden in the world down below,

I retire heaping blessings on the God that made and gave,

That little spot called Erin dear, the Land of the True and Brave.

When I scorch the distant regions how gently do I smile,

On the green fields of Erin in the dear old Emerald isle,

The lustre of her breezes mingled with my rays,

Shine down upon the waters of her crystal lakes and bays,

The warbling songsters chanting their brightest notes so true,

Do paint the valley vocal in the by-beholders view,

Guided by kind Neptune, each bringing roller wave,

To wash the shores of Erin dear, the Land of the True and Brave.

When the war cloud on the continent grows fearful dark and broad,

And the war wolves howl with bitterness, deception, rage and fraud,

While the enemy stands unflinching on a well-contested field,

I never knew the Irishman to be the first to yield,

Regardless of the consequences no matter wail or woe,

And like the mighty Hesperus bears down upon the foe,

For it never yet was cowardice that made the Celt a slave,

Or made a petty province of the Land of the True and Brave.

I’ve heard the woes and wailings by the midnight cold and pale,

And the ghastly meanings hoisted by the power of the gale,

Beneath which rests the reddened sod that drank the life-blood fast,

Of the cruel cold-blood murdered brave, betrayed at Mullaghmast,

But time and space compels me now quickly to curtail,

The noble deeds of valiant men, the clansmen of O’Neill,

Who hurried through the jaws of death the Anglo Saxon knave,

Who would enslave Old Erin dear, the Land of the True and Brave.

I’ve seen the dark and Penal days, those days have come and gone,

When tyrants of that favoured band have dropped off one by one,

But in the vale of dark despair where bygone bigots died,

Beneath the hill of tyranny their places were supplied,

And freedom yet triumphantly, along with me will shine,

And England softened, stilled, will be that hardened heart of thine,

And as thy hands grow powerless I do one favour crave,

That Heaven will prosper Erin dear, the Land of the True and Brave.