For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride
Three hundred years it flourished--in three hundred days it died.
Singing--Pour oil for a frozen throng,
That lie about the ways.
Give them the warmth they have lacked so long
And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,
On such a pyre to blaze?

God rest you, thoughtful gentlemen, and send your sleep is light!
Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,
Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,
And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire.
Singing.--Break bread for a starving folk
That perish in the field.
Give them their food as they take the yoke ...
And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,
For such a bribe to yield?

God rest you, merry gentlemen, and keep you in your mirth!
Was ever kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?
'Twixt the summer and the snow--seeding-time and frost--
Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost!
Singing:--_Let down by the foot and the head--
Shovel and smooth it all!
So do we bury a Nation dead ..._
And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,
With your good help to fall?

THE IRISH GUARDS

1918

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade,
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
_Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!_

The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English--left at Ghent
They're fighting on our side to-day.
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
_Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying,