the minstrel boy to the war is gone,
in the ranks of death you’ll find him;
his father’s sword he hath girded on,
and his wild harp slung behind him;
“land of song!” cried the warrior bard,
(should) “tho’ all the world betrays thee,
one sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
one faithful harp shall praise thee!”
the minstrel fell! but the foeman’s steel
could not bring that proud soul under;
the harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again,
for he tore it’s chords asunder;
and said “no chains shall sully thee,
thou soul of love and brav’ry!
thy songs were made for the pure and free
they shall never sound in slavery!