Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
  Though the days of the hero are o’er;
Though lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave,
  He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often [hath poured]1
  Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword
  To light us to victory yet.

Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
  Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
  The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
  Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That ’t is sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
  Than to sleep but a moment in chains.

Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
  In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
  They stirred not, but conquered and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light
  Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain; —
O, let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
  To find that they fell there in vain.