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Thomas Moore - Where is the Slave
Work rating: Low

Oh, where`s the slave so lowly, 
Condemn`d to chains unholy, 
   Who, could he burst 
   His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay`d it, 
   When thus its wing 
   At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it? 

Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch`d and blowing, 
   Than that whose braid 
   Is pluckd to shade 
The brows with victory glowing. 
We tread the land that bore us, 
Her green flag glitters o`er us, 
   The friends we`ve tried 
   Are by our side, 
And the foe we hate before us. 

Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, 
Who live to weep our fall!
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