The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

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.

Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep.

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.