The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light <br />May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night, <br />Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away, <br />But thy courage O Erin! may never decay. <br /> <br />See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, <br />Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground, <br />Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains, <br />And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains. <br /> <br />Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure, <br />Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure, <br />But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears, <br />The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears. <br /> <br />Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death, <br />Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath, <br />Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, <br />And 'my countrymen! vengeance!' incessantly cry. <br /> <br />OCTOBER, 1809<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-irishman-s-song/
