Chapter VI: THE DEATH OF ADAM. (xii.) (3)

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

THE FAIR HILLS OF EIRE

Donnchad Ruadh MacNamara, about 1730.

Take my heart's blessing over to dear Éire's strand--
Fair Hills of Éire O!
To the Remnant that love her--our Forefathers' land!
Fair Hills of Éire O!
How sweet sing the birds, o'er mount there and vale,
Like soft sounding chords, that lament for the Gael,--
And I, o'er the surge, far, far away must wail
The Fair Hills of Éire O!

How fair are the flow'rs on the dear daring peaks,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Far o'er foreign bowers I love her barest reeks,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Triumphant her trees, that rise on ev'ry height,
Bloom-kissed, the breeze comes odorous and bright,
The love of my heart!--O my very soul's delight!
The Fair Hills of Éire O!

Still numerous and noble her sons who survive,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
The true hearts in trouble, the strong hands to strive--
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Ah, 'tis this makes my grief, my wounding and my woe,
To think that each chief is now a vassal low,
And my Country divided amongst the Foreign Foe--
The Fair Hills of Éire O!

In purple they gleam, like our High Kings of yore,
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
With honey and cream are her plains flowing o'er,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Once more I will come, or my very life shall fail,
To the heart-haunted home of the ever-faithful Gael,
Than King's boon more welcome the swift swelling sail
For the Fair Hills of Éire O!

The dewdrops sparkle, like diamonds on the corn,
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Where green boughs darkle the bright apples burn
Fair Hills of Éire O!
Behold, in the valley, cress and berries bland,
Where streams love to dally, in that Wondrous Land,
Where the great River-voices roll in music grand
Round the Fair Hills of Éire O!

O, 'tis welcoming, wide-hearted, that dear land of love!
Fair Hills of Éire O!
New life unto the martyred is the pure breeze above
The Fair Hills of Éire O!
More sweet than tune flowing o'er the chords of gold
Comes the kine's soft lowing from the mountain fold,--
O, the Splendour of the Sunshine on them all, Young and Old,
'Mid the Fair Hills of Éire O!

GEORGE SIGERSON.

SHULE AROON

_A Brigade Ballad_

Sir Charles Gavan Duffy says that the date of this ballad is not positively known, but it appears to be early in the eighteenth century, when the flower of the Catholic youth of Ireland were drawn away to recruit the ranks of the Irish Brigade abroad. It is accompanied by an air of deep sentiment and touching simplicity.--_Ballad Poetry of Ireland._

I would I were on yonder hill,
'Tis there I'd sit and cry my fill,
And every tear would turn a mill,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus eulaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!_[111]

I'll sell my rock, I'll sell my reel,
I'll sell my only spinning-wheel,
To buy for my love a sword of steel,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail a ruin!_ &c.

I'll dye my petticoats, I'll dye them red,
And round the world I'll beg my bread,
Until my parents shall wish me dead,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!_ &c.

I wish, I wish, I wish in vain,
I wish I had my heart again,
And vainly think I'd not complain,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!_ &c.

But now my love has gone to France,
To try his fortune to advance;
If he e'er come back, 'tis but a chance,
_Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!
Siubhail, siubhail, siubhail, a ruin!
Siubhail go socair, agus siubhail go ciuin,
Siubhail go d-ti an doras agus culaigh liom,
Is go d-teidh tu, a mhurnin, slan!_

FOOTNOTES:

[111] Dr. Sigerson renders the chorus in English verse, as follows:--

"Come, come, come, O Love!
Quickly come to me, softly move;
Come to the door, and away we'll flee,
And safe for aye may my darling be!"

LOVE'S DESPAIR

Dermot O'Curnan, born 1740.

I am desolate,
Bereft by bitter fate;
No cure beneath the skies can save me,
No cure on sea or strand,
Nor in any human hand--
But hers, this paining wound who gave me.

I know not night from day,
Nor thrush from cuckoo gray,
Nor cloud from the sun that shines above thee--
Nor freezing cold from heat,
Nor friend--if friend I meet--
I but know--heart's love!--I love thee.

Love that my Life began,
Love, that will close life's span,
Love that grows ever by love-giving:
Love, from the first to last,
Love, till all life be passed,
Love that loves on after living!

This love I gave to thee,
For pain love has given me,
Love that can fail or falter never--
But, spite of earth above,
Guards thee, my Flower of love,
Thou marvel-maid of life for ever.

Bear all things evidence,
Thou art my very sense,
My past, my present, and my morrow!
All else on earth is crossed,
All in the world is lost--
Lost all--but the great love-gift of sorrow.

My life not life, but death;
My voice not voice--a breath;
No sleep, no quiet--thinking ever
On thy fair phantom face,
Queen eyes and royal grace,
Lost loveliness that leaves me never.

I pray thee grant but this--
From thy dear mouth one kiss,
That the pang of death-despair pass over:
Or bid make ready nigh
The place where I shall lie,
For aye, thy leal and silent lover.

GEORGE SIGERSON.

THE CRUISKEEN LAWN

O sons of noble Erinn,
I've tidings of high daring
To brighten now your faces pale and wan:
Then hearken, gather nearer,
In Gaelic ringing clearer,
We'll pledge them in a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán,
We'll pledge them in a cruiskeen lán!
Olfameed an cruiskeen,
Sláinte gal mo vuirneen![112]
In motion, over ocean, slán, slán, slán!

In exile dark and dreary,
Wandering far and weary,
With friends that never failed, I have gone,
The trusted and true-hearted,
Would God we'd never parted,
Our brothers, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our heroes in a cruiskeen lán.

Heav'n speed them over ocean,
With breeze of rapid motion,
The ships that King Charles sails upon;
With troops the frank and fearless,
To win our Freedom peerless,
Our Freedom, boys, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
Our Freedom, in a cruiskeen lán!

Young men who now are sharing
The toast we raise to Erinn,
With hope that the King is coming on,
Grasp your guns and lances
For swift his host advances,
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
We'll toast them in a cruiskeen lán!

The tribe who would destroy all
Our rightful princes royal
Shall hence end their rule and begone;
The Gael shall live in gladness,
And banished be all sadness.
To that time, then, a cruiskeen lán, lán, lán!
That time, boys, a cruiskeen lán!
Olfameed an cruiskeen,
Sláinte gal mo vuirneen,
In motion, over ocean, slán, slán, slán!

GEORGE SIGERSON.

FOOTNOTES:

[112] _i.e._ "Let us drink the cruiskeen ('little jug'); fair health to my darling!"

EAMONN AN CHNUIC, OR "NED OF THE HILL"

_The Outlaw's Song_

"Who is that without
With voice like a sword,
That batters my bolted door?"
"I am Eamonn an Chnuic,
Cold, weary, and wet
From long walking mountains and glens."
"O dear and bright love,
What would I do for you
But cover you with a skirt of my dress.
For shots full thick
Are raining on you,
And together we may be slaughtered!"

"Long am I out
Under snow, under frost,
Without comradeship with any;
My team unyoked,
My fallow unsown,
And they lost to me entirely;
Friend I have none
(I am heavy for that)
That would harbour me late or early;
And so I must go
East over the sea,
Since 'tis there I have no kindred!"

P. H. PEARSE.

O DRUIMIN DONN DILISH

"O Druimin donn dilish,[113]
True Flower of the Kine,
Say, where art thou hiding,
Sad Mother of mine?"
"I lurk in the wild wood,
No human ear hears
(Save my brave lads around me)
My fast-falling tears.

"Gone my broad lands and homesteads,
My music and wine,
No chieftains attend me
No hostings are mine.
Stale bread and cold water
The whole of my hoard,
While the warm wine flows freely
Round the enemy's board."

"Could we utter our minds
To those smart English rogues,
We would beat them as soundly
As we beat our old brogues!
We would whip them through thorns
On a damp, foggy day,
O'er the cliffs, my Donn dilish,
We would chase them away!"

FOOTNOTES:

[113] A poetic name for Ireland; _druimshionn donn dileas_, lit. "the beloved white-backed dun cow."

DO YOU REMEMBER THAT NIGHT?

Do you remember that night
When you were at the window,
With neither hat nor gloves
Nor coat to shelter you?
I reached out my hand to you,
And you ardently grasped it,
I remained to converse with you
Until the lark began to sing.

Do you remember that night
That you and I were
At the foot of the rowan-tree,
And the night drifting snow?
Your head on my breast,
And your pipe sweetly playing?
Little thought I that night
That our love ties would loosen!

Beloved of my inmost heart,
Come some night, and soon,
When my people are at rest,
That we may talk together.
My arms shall encircle you
While I relate my sad tale,
That your soft, pleasant converse
Hath deprived me of heaven.

The fire is unraked,
The light unextinguished,
The key under the door,
Do you softly draw it.
My mother is asleep,
But I am wide awake;
My fortune in my hand,
I am ready to go with you.

_Written down by O'Curry for Dr. George Petrie._

THE EXILE'S SONG

Composed by an emigrant named MacAmbrois.

Oh! were I again on my native bay,
By the curving hills that are far away,
I scarcely would wander for half a day
From the Cuckoo's Glen of a Sunday!
For, och, och, Éire, O!
Lone is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

O many a Christmas in Ireland,
I would race with the boys on the pleasant strand,
With my hurling-stick in my baby hand,
And but little sense to guide me!
And, och, och, Éire, O!
Sad is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

Lonely and drear is this foreign plain,
Where I hear but my own voice back again,
No call of the corncrake, cuckoo, or crane,
Now awakens me on a Sunday!
Then, och, och, Éire, O!
Lost is the exile from Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

O, had I a boat and a single oar,
With the help of God I'd reach Erin's shore,
Nay, the very tide might drift me o'er,
To die at home in Erin!
Now, och, och, Éire, O!
Would I were back in Éire, O!
'Tis my heart that is heavy and weary!

THE FISHERMAN'S KEEN

_Or the lamentation of O'Donoghue of Affadown ("Roaring Water"), in the west of Co. Cork, for his three sons and his son-in-law, who were drowned_.

O loudly wailed the winter wind, the driving sleet fell fast,
The ocean billow wildly heaved beneath the bitter blast;
My three fair sons, ere break of day, to fish had left the shore,
The tempest came forth in its wrath--they ne'er returned more.

Cormac, 'neath whose unerring aim the wild duck fell in flight,
The plover of the lonesome hills, the curlew swift as light!
My firstborn child! the flower of youth! the dearest and the best!
O would that thou wert spared to me, though I had lost the rest!

And thou, my handsome Felix! in whose eye so dark and bright
The soul of courage and of wit looked forth in laughing light!
And Daniel, too, my fair-haired boy, the gentle and the brave,
All, all my stately sons were 'whelmed beneath the foaming wave.

Upon the shore, in wild despair, your aged father stood,
And gazed upon his Daniel's corse, too late snatched from the flood!
I saw him pale and lifeless lie, no more to see the light--
And cold, and dumb, and motionless, my heart grew at the sight!

My children, my loved children! do you view my bitter grief?
Look down upon your poor old sire, whose woe knows no relief!
The sunshine of mine eyes is gone, the comfort of my heart;
My life of life, my soul of soul, I've seen from earth depart!

What am I now? an aged man, to earth by sorrow bowed,
I weep within a stranger's home; lone, even in a crowd;
There is no sorrow like to mine, no grief like mine appears,
My once blithe Christmas is weighed down with anguish and with tears.

My sons! my sons! abandoned to the fury of the waves!
Would I could reach the two who lie in ocean's darksome caves;
'Twould bring some comfort to my heart in earth to see them laid,
And hear in Affadown the wild lamentings for them made.

O would that like the gay "Wild Geese" my sons had left this land,
From their poor father in his age, to seek a foreign strand;
Then might I hope the Lord of Heaven in mercy would restore,
My brave and good and stately sons in time to me once more!

ANONYMOUS.

BOATMAN'S HYMN

Bark that bare me through foam and squall,
You in the storm are my castle wall:
Though the sea should redden from bottom to top,
From tiller to mast she takes no drop;
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor.

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on,
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn;
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale,
And oh! if you saw her stretch out to the gale,
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Whillan, ahoy! old heart of stone,
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone,
Answer me well--on the bursting brine
Saw you ever a bark like mine?
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

Says Whillan--"Since first I was made of stone,
I have looked abroad o'er the beach alone--
But till to-day, on the bursting brine,
Saw I never a bark like thine,"
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c.

"God of the air!" the seamen shout,
When they see us tossing the brine about:
"Give us the shelter of strand or rock,
Or through and through us she goes with a shock!"
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
Wherry aroon, my land and store!
On the tide-top, the tide-top,
She is the boat can sail go leor!

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.

DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF ART O'LEARY

_Shot at Carraganime, Co. Cork, May 4, 1773_

By Dark Eileen, his wife.

I

My closest and dearest!
From the first day I saw you
From the top of the market-house,
My eyes gave heed to you,
My heart gave affection to you,
I fled from my friends with you,
Far from my home with you,
No lasting sorrow this to me.

II

Thou didst bring me to fair chambers,
Rooms you had adorned for me;
Ovens were reddened for me,
Fresh trout were caught for me,
Roast flesh was carved for me
From beef that was felled for me;
On beds of down I lay
Till the coming of the milking-time,
Or so long as was pleasing to me.

III

Rider of the white palm!
With the silver-hilted sword!
Well your beaver hat became you
With its band of graceful gold;
Your suit of solid homespun yarn
Wrapped close around your form;
Slender shoes of foreign fashion,
And a pin of brightest silver
Fastened in your shirt.
As you rode in stately wise
On your slender steed, white-faced,
After coming over seas,
Even the Saxons bowed before you
Bowed down to the very ground;
Not because they loved you well
But from deadly hate;
For it was by them you fell,
Darling of my soul.

IV

My friend and my little calf!
Offspring of the Lords of Antrim,
And the chiefs of Immokely!
Never had I thought you dead,
Until there came to me your mare
Her bridle dragged beside her to the ground;
Upon her brow your heart-blood splashed,
Even to the carven saddle flowing down
Where you were wont to sit or stand.
I did not stay to cleanse it--
I gave a quick leap with my hands
Upon the wooden stretcher of the bed;
A second leap was to the gate,
And the third leap upon thy mare.

V

In haste I clapped my hands together,
I followed on your tracks
As well as I could,
Till I found you laid before me dead
At the foot of a lowly bush of furze;
Without pope, without bishop,
Without cleric or priest
To read a psalm for thee;
But only an old bent wasted crone
Who flung over thee the corner of her cloak.

VI

My dear and beloved one!
When it will come to me to reach our home,
Little Conor, of our love,
And Fiac, his toddling baby-brother,
Will be asking of me quickly
Where I left their dearest father?
I shall answer them with sorrow
That I left him in Kill Martyr;
They will call upon their father;
He will not be there to answer.

VII

My love and my chosen one!
When you were going forward from the gate,
You turned quickly back again!
You kissed your two children,
You threw a kiss to me.
You said, "Eileen, arise now, be stirring,
And set your house in order,
Be swiftly moving.
I am leaving our home,
It is likely that I may not come again."
I took it only for a jest
You used often to be jesting thus before.

VIII

My friend and my heart's love!
Arise up, my Art,
Leap on thy steed,
Arise out to Macroom
And to Inchegeela after that;
A bottle of wine in thy grasp,
As was ever in the time of thy ancestors.
Arise up, my Art,
Rider of the shining sword;
Put on your garments,
Your fair noble clothes;
Don your black beaver,
Draw on your gloves;
See, here hangs your whip,
Your good mare waits without;
Strike eastward on the narrow road,
For the bushes will bare themselves before you,
For the streams will narrow on your path,
For men and women will bow themselves before you
If their own good manners are upon them yet,
But I am much a-feared they are not now.

IX

Destruction to you and woe,
O Morris, hideous the treachery
That took from me the man of the house,
The father of my babes;
Two of them running about the house,
The third beneath my breast,
It is likely that I shall not give it birth.

X

My long wound, my bitter sorrow,
That I was not beside thee
When the shot was fired;
That I might have got it in my soft body
Or in the skirt of my gown;
Till I would give you freedom to escape,
O Rider of the grey eye,
Because it is you would best have followed after them.

XI

My dear and my heart's love!
Terrible to me the way I see thee,
To be putting our hero,
Our rider so true of heart,
In a little cap in a coffin!
Thou who used to be fishing along the streams,
Thou who didst drink within wide halls
Among the gentle women white of breast;
It is my thousand afflictions
That I have lost your companionship!
My love and my darling,
Could my shouts but reach thee
West in mighty Derrynane,
And in Carhen of the yellow apples after that;
Many a light-hearted young horseman,
And woman with white spotless kerchief
Would swiftly be with us here,
To wail above thy head
Art O'Leary of the joyous laugh!
O women of the soft wet eyes,
Stay now your weeping,
Till Art O'Leary drinks his drink
Before his going back to school;
Not to learn reading or music does he go there now,
But to carry clay and stones.

XII

My love and my secret thou.
Thy corn-stacks are piled,
And thy golden kine are milking,
But it is upon my own heart is the grief!
There is no healing in the Province of Munster,
Nor in the Island smithy of the Fians,
Till Art O'Leary will come back to me;
But all as if it were a lock upon a trunk
And the key of it gone straying;
Or till rust will come upon the screw.

XIII

My friend and my best one!
Art O'Leary, son of Conor,
Son of Cadach, son of Lewis,
Eastward from wet wooded glens,
Westward from the slender hill
Where the rowan-berries grow,
And the yellow nuts are ripe upon the branches;
Apples trailing, as it was in my day.
Little wonder to myself
If fires were lighted in O'Leary's country,
And at the mouth of Ballingeary,
Or at holy Gougane Barra of the cells,
After the rider of the smooth grip,
After the huntsman unwearied
When, heavy breathing with the chase,
Even thy lithe deerhounds lagged behind.
O horseman of the enticing eyes,
What happened thee last night?
For I myself thought
That the whole world could not kill you
When I bought for you that shirt of mail.

XIV

My friend and my darling!
A cloudy vision through the darkness
Came to me last night,
At Cork lately
And I alone upon my bed!
I saw the wood glen withered,
I saw our lime-washed court fallen;
No sound of speech came from thy hunting-dogs
Nor sound of singing from the birds
When you were found fallen
On the side of the hill without;
When you were found in the clay,
Art O'Leary;
With your drop of blood oozing out
Through the breast of your shirt.

XV

It is known to Jesus Christ,
I will put no cap upon my head,
Nor body-linen on my side,
Nor shoes upon my feet,
Nor gear throughout the house;
Even on the brown mare will be no bridle,
But I shall spend all in taking the law.
I will go across the seas
To speak with the king;
But if they will give no heed to me,
It is I that will come back again
To seek the villain of the black blood
Who cut off my treasure from me.
O Morrison, who killed my hero,
Was there not one man in Erin
Would put a bullet through you?

XVI

The affection of this heart to you,
O white women of the mill,
For the edged poetry that you have shed
Over the horseman of the brown mare.
It is I who am the lonely one
In Inse Carriganane.

THE MIDNIGHT COURT

_Prologue_

Brian Merriman, died in Limerick, 1808.

Full often I strolled by the brink of the river,
On the greensward soaked by the heavy dew,
Skirting the woods in the bays of the mountains,
No care in my heart, while the day was new.

My soul would light up when I saw Loch Gréine
Lie blue on the breast of the landscape green,
The heaven's expanse o'er the ring of the mountains,
Peak beckoning to peak o'er the ridges between.

Ah, well might the weakling, the sport of misfortune,
Spent of his vigour, embittered with pain,
His birthright wasted, his pockets empty,
Gaze long on that scene and take heart again.

On its mistless bosom the wild duck settled,
Two followed by two rode the stately swan,
In wanton gladness the perch leaped upward,
Ruddy their scales when the bright sun shone!

Peaceful the scene, as the azure waters
In ripples swept circling in to the shore;
Strange is its change in the winter quarter,
Its thunderous crash, its hollow roar.

Bright birds in the trees make a melody mirthful,
The doe bounds down, the hunt flashes by,
I hear the shrill horns, they are close upon me!
Brave Reynard in front, and the hounds in full cry!

RELIGIOUS POEMS OF THE PEOPLE

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY

Conor O'Riordan, about 1750.

Queen of all Queens, oh! Wonder of the loveliness of women,
Heart which hath held in check for us the righteous wrath of God;
Strong Staff of Light, and Fosterer of the Bright Child of heaven,
Pray thou for us as we now pray that we may be forgiven.

She of the King of Stars beloved, stainless, undefiled,
Christ chose as His Mother-nurse, to Him, the stainless Child;
Within her breast, as in a nest, the Paraclete reposes,
Lily among fairest flowers, Rose amid red roses.

She, the bright unsheathèd sword to guard our souls in anguish,
She, the flawless limber-branch, to cover those that languish;
Where her healing mantle flows, may I find my hiding,
'Neath the fringes of her robe constantly abiding.

Hostile camps upon the plain, sharp swords clashed together,
Stricken fleets across the main stressed by wintry weather;
Weary sickness on my heart, sinful thoughts alluring,
All the fever of my soul clings to her for curing.

She the Maid the careful king of the wide wet world chooses,
In her speech forgiveness lies, no suppliant she refuses;
White Star of our troubled sea, on thy name I'm crying,
That Christ may draw in His spread net the living and the dying.

CHRISTMAS HYMN

Hail to thee, thou holy Babe,
In the manger now so poor,
Yet so rich Thou art, I ween,
High within the highest door.

Little Babe who art so great,
Child so young who art so old,
In the manger small His room
Whom not heaven itself could hold.

Motherless, with mother here,
Fatherless, a tiny span,
Ever God in heaven's height,
First to-night becoming man.

Father--not more old than thou?
Mother--younger, can it be!
Older, younger is the Son,
Younger, older, she than He.

DOUGLAS HYDE

O MARY OF GRACES

O Mary of Graces
And Mother of God,
May I tread in the paths
That the righteous have trod.

And mayest thou save me
From evil's control,
And mayest thou save me
In body and soul.

And mayest thou save me
By land and by sea,
And mayest thou save me
From tortures to be.

May the guard of the angels
Above me abide,
May God be before me
And God at my side.

DOUGLAS HYDE.

THE CATTLE-SHED

O Trinity of the glorious saints, I marvel
that the White Prince of the Kingdom did descend
as a child into the pure womb of Mary.
Nine months the Master of the Angels stayed
in humility and in great lowliness with her,
lighting a furnace of love within her.
He came down to earth,
the White Lamb, our loosener from sin.
O Mother, who found not a dwelling in the city,
till thou didst come to the stable to seek a bed;
there wast thou lying in poverty,
without wine, without flesh, or one taste in thy mouth;
on the mean barley chaff in the cattle-shed,
she brought forth the only Son of God of the Apostles.
Cold and misery you complained not of as your portion,
and was it not the holy sight in the manger of the ass?

HAIL TO THEE, O MARY

Hail to thee, O Mary,
Full of holy graces,
Thou our loving Mother
Whom the child embraces.
Hail to thee, O Mary,
Where are our alarms?
Is the little Child not blessed,
Lying in thine arms?

TWO PRAYERS

A low prayer, a high prayer, I send through space.
Arrange them Thyself, O Thou King of Grace.

O MARY, O BLESSED MOTHER

O Mary, O blessed Mother,
praise from my heart I sing,
it is thou didst bear our Saviour,
our Lord and our King.
In the stable of Bethlehem's city,
at the hour of middle-night,
was not sweet the brave song of the angels
for the King who was born that night?

O King of Kings, a thousand glories to Thee,
it is Thou who didst bear the cross
out to Calvary's hill,
and Thou wounded in every spot.
We will take courage from the pouring of the blood,
and we will follow our Saviour,
our Lord and our King,
to the city of Glory,
along with the throng,
Saints, Apostles, and Angels,
to the dwelling of God's Son.