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Poem	Oh, where's the slave so lowly, Condemn'd to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it? Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall! Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouch'd and blowing, Than that whose braid Is pluckd to shade The brows with victory glowing. We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o'er us, The friends we've tried Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us. Farewell, Erin, -- farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!
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