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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=556120" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Home Sonnets--Address To Ireland</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mother of soldiers! once there was a time<br>When your sons' swords won fame in many a clime;<br>When Europe press'd on France, they fought alone<br>For her, and served her better than their own!<br>Those were the days your exiles made their fame<br>By gallant deeds which put our age to shame-<br>Those were the days Cremona city, saved,<br>Stood to attest what Irish valor braved!<br>When England's chivalry, sore wounded fled<br>Before the stormy charge O'Brien led-<br>When travellers saw in Ypres' coir display'd<br>The trophies of your song-renown'd brigade!<br>Mother of soldiers! France was proud to see<br>Your shamrock then twined with the fleur de lis!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mother of soldiers! in the cause of Spain<br>The Moors in Oran's trench by them were slain;<br>For full an hundred years their fatal steel<br>Has charged beside the lances of Castile.<br>Carb'ry's, Tyrconnell's, Breffny's exiled lords<br>To Spain and glory gave their gallant swords;<br>And Spain, of honor jealous, gave them place<br>Before her native sons in glory's race;<br>Her noblest laurels graced your soldiers' head,<br>Her dearest daughters shared your soldiers' bed;<br>In danger's hour she call'd them to the front,<br>And gave to them the praise who bore the brunt:<br>Mother of soldiers! Spain to-day will be<br>A willing witness for thy sons and thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mother of soldiers! on the Volga's banks<br>Your practised leaders form'd the Russian ranks;<br>And fallen Limerick gave the chiefs to lead<br>The hosts who triumph'd o'er the famous Swede.<br>That time even Austria gave them host on host,<br>The ruling baton, and the perilous post-<br>Buda, Belgrade, Prague, Deva-every trust<br>That man could earn, and found them bold as just.<br>Velettri, Zorndorff, Dantzic, still can tell<br>How Austria's Irish soldiers fought and fell,<br>And how the ruling skill that led them on<br>To conquer was supplied by your own son!<br>Mother of soldiers! while these trophies last,<br>You're safe against the sland'rers of the past!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mother of exiles! from your soil to-day<br>New myriads are destroy'd or swept away;<br>The crowded graveyards grow no longer green,<br>The daily dead have scanty space, I ween;<br>The groaning ships, freighted with want and grief,<br>Entomb in every wave a fugitive;<br>The sword no more an Irish weapon is-<br>The spirit of the land no longer lives;<br>Mother! 'twas kill'd before the famine came-<br>The stubble was prepared to meet the flame;<br>All manly souls were from their bodies torn,<br>And what avails it if the bodies burn?<br>Mother of soldiers! may we hope to be<br>Yet fit to strike for vengeance and for thee!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+D+Arcy+McGee">Thomas D Arcy McGee</a><div class=q>
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Mother of soldiers! once there was a time
When your sons' swords won fame in many a clime;
When Europe press'd on France, they fought alone
For her, and served her better than their own!
Those were the days your exiles made their fame
By gallan..."></div>
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