A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
Tomorrow let us do or die!
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.