“IT’S the flag of France! the flag of France, I see! | |
| Life to it! Health to it! fold on fold, | |
| With the silken glint on its colors three. | |
| Yet if it was white with lilies of gold— | |
| The flag of a king—but the banner of France. | 5 |
| With the flag of stars our love ’twould share, | |
| And, my soul, I’m for either with sword or lance. | |
| It’s a people we love not the flag they bear. | |
| Let the seas divide; let the green earth hide, | |
| And the long years come and go, | 10 |
| When love has once dwelt in the heart of the Celt. | |
| It is there while the waters flow.” | |
| |
| “And why do you Irish love France? It seems right | |
| When we sons of Plymouth read how they came, | |
| And shouldered their guns in the Yorktown fight, | 15 |
| To feel grateful, and honor that nation’s name. | |
| To see plain Ben Franklin sit down with their king, | |
| And Rochambeau join Lafayette on guard, | |
| ’Longside of George Washington, and,—by jing! | |
| Paul Jones on the deck of Bonhomme Richard! | 20 |
| Oh, it stirs us yet; no, we don’t forget | |
| The days between storm and shine, | |
| With the ships of the French, and their men in the trench | |
| And their rush on the fighting line.” | |
| |
| “The love of old Ireland for France? It has been | 25 |
| In the first low lilt of our cradle croon; | |
| Has twined with our longing for ‘Wearing the Green;’ | |
| Has been wet with the tears of our ‘Shule Aroon.’ | |
| No new love can bid it to wither and fall; | |
| Its roots have sunk in the deep past, and are strong | 30 |
| As the long, long mem’ry that marks out the Gael | |
| For loving old love and rememb’ring old wrong. | |
| Where the strong hands clasp, in the true man’s grasp | |
| And the stout soul finds its mate, | |
| Let the great doors swing and the great bells ring | 35 |
| For the love that laughs at fate. | |
| |
| “To France for a hundred sad years we turned | |
| As our only friend and our hope-lit star. | |
| And never our banished ones’ prayers she spurned | |
| But mustered for Ireland her lords of war. | 40 |
| Oh, the French on the sea, and the pikes on the plain, | |
| The battle-joy strong in the eyes and breast; | |
| And if in our Ireland their valor was vain, | |
| God prospered their arms in the land of the West. | |
| Man strikes and prays, but God’s dim ways | 45 |
| Direct the red bolt that’s hurled, | |
| And the staggering blow of Rochambeau | |
| Broke chains all round the world. | |
| |
| “They flung wide their halls to our priests and our youth, | |
| When our schools were razed and our faith was banned; | 50 |
| They sent us the swords of De Tesse and St. Ruth. | |
| And Humbert and Hoche to strike for our land. | |
| And we, poor in all but our lives and our blades, | |
| Sent Sarsfield and Dillon, O’Brien, O’Neill | |
| And the passionate stream of the Irish brigades, | 55 |
| The sire of MacMahon went there with his steel. | |
| With the years as they go, may its glory grow, | |
| Fair France of the generous hand! | |
| As for freedom it stood with its gold and its blood, | |
| Still free and superb may it stand. | 60 |
| |
| “From the loins of the grand old Celtic race, | |
| Our fathers and theirs came stalwart and twin, | |
| Wherever we’ve met on the round world’s face, | |
| Our souls knew their souls for clansman and kin, | |
| And by us, who on many a blood-red field, | 65 |
| Poured out of our best by the best of France, | |
| The compact of kinship again shall be sealed, | |
| Whenever for freedom her colors advance. | |
| May health and grace greet the Celtic race— | |
| The Gaul and Gael—on sea and shore! | 70 |
| And the green banner ride the wide heavens beside | |
| The starry flag and the tricolor!” | |
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