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British War Poetry in the Age of Romanticism 1793-1815, by Betty T. Bennet, Edited by Orianne Smith

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1806.10
War Song
“Frater”
The Poetical Register and Repository of Fugitive Verse, V (1806), pp. 390-392

Warriors! see th' Invader near!
Warriors! now the standard rear—
Grasp the sabre—point the spear.
                                       Warriors! rise.

By the Hero's hallow'd fame;
By the coward's deathless shame;
By Ireland's injur'd honour'd name;
By Borhoime's shade, whose dying hand,
On the bloody Clontarf strand
Swept the wild Dane from the land,
                                       Warriors! rise.

Onward! to the battle go,
Bid the Atheist Plund'rer know,
Our breasts with Irish valour glow!
If, trusting to his faith, ye yield,
The die is cast, your doom is seal'd—
Remember Jaffa's murd'rous field!
                                       Warriors! rise.

By all the Hero's heart holds dear—
The Spouse's smile, the Infant's tear,
The voice of God and Nature near.
'Tis in no Tyrant's tott'ring cause,
'Tis for his King, his Home, his Laws,
The Freeman's sword the Freeman draws.
                                      Warriors! rise.

When did the Frenchman learn to spare
The kneeling Parent's hoary hair,
Or soften to the Infant's pray'r?
Tho' Fate or Fortune waft him o'er,
Teach him, if once he treads our shore,
He treads it—to return no more.
                                      Warriors! rise.

See! yonder see his banners wave!
Fathers! Brothers! Sons! be brave—
Give him no ground, but for his grave.
What, tho' his countless hosts pour on—
What tho' on earth we stand alone,
To shield the Temple and the Throne—
                                      Warriors! rise.

By the Captive's galling chain,
By the polluted, plunder'd fane—
The ruin'd cot—the smoaking plain—
On! Warriors!—to the Battle go,
Squadrons, sweeping on the Foe,
Strike the exterminating blow.
                                      Warriors! rise.

Rushing thro' the heaps of slain,
Re-dye with many a gory stain
The laurels of the Egyptian plain.
Now! the hour of trail's nigh—
Swell the battle-chorus high,
"Death! glorious Death or Liberty!"
                                      Warriors! rise.

Brace the helm, the standard rear,
Grasp the sabre, point the spear—
United!—what have ye to fear?
Warriors! be brave.

DUBLIN.


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Published @ RC

September 2004