God greet You, sacred Child,
poor in the manger there,
yet happy and rich tonight
in your stronghold in glory.

For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Oh! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lightened through my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen!

Death to the world, and the world’s idle praise, —
The faithless saw his faith with evil eyes,
They doom’d him without stain, and here he dies.

We'll wake the Harp of Tara's Hall
With music streams once more
And the birds shall ring with freedom
Throughout green Erin's shore.

No more the feet of foemen shall taint our Northern soil,
No more the waving cornfields shall be the Saxon’s spoil.
Our flag no longer drooping, each fold shall now reveal,
And wave for God and Erin and our darling Hugh O’Neill.

These weapons put behind you:
hide henceforth your curling hair;
do not bare that white breast
that spares no living man.

O wise men, riddle me this: what if the dream come true?
What if the dream come true? and if millions unborn shall dwell
In the house that I shaped in my heart, the noble house of my thought?

My Irish isn’t clean, my grammar doesn’t gleam
In this soft light, but I still like
It’s punctuality, musicality, the spirituality with which we once spoke
My mother’s tongue was cut from my throat

On nations fixed in right and truth,
God would bestow eternal youth.

I have read in ancient annals of a race of gallant men
Who fear’d neither Dane nor Devil; but it is long since then —
And "cowardice is virtue,'' so runs the modern creed

Oh, brave young men, my love, my pride, my promise,

’Tis on you my hopes are set,

In manliness, in kindliness, in justice,

To make Erin a nation yet