The minstrel boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you will find him
His father’s sword he hath girded on
And his wild harp slung behind him
“Land of song,” cries the warrior bard,
“Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword at least thy right shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee.”
The minstrell fell, but the foeman’s chain
Shall not bring that proud soul under
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again
For he tore her cords asunder
And said, “No chain shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free;
They shall never sound in slavery.”