Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          TO-MORROW, comrade, we

          On the battle-plain must be,

                There to conquer, or both lie low!

          The morning star is up —

          But there’s wine still in the cup,

                And we’ll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;

                We’ll take another quaff, ere we go.

          ’Tis true, in manliest eyes

          A passing tear will rise,

                When we think of the friends we leave lone;

          But what can wailing do?

          See, our goblet’s weeping too!

                With its tears we’ll chase away our own, boy, our own;

                With its tears we’ll chase away our own.

          But daylight’s stealing on;

          The last that o’er us shone

                Saw our children around us play;

          The next — ah! where shall we

          And those rosy urchins be?

                But — no matter — grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;

                No matter — grasp thy sword and away!

          Let those, who brook the chain

          Of Saxon or of Dane,

                Ignobly by their fire-sides stay;

          One sigh to home be given,

          One heartfelt prayer to heaven,

                Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!

                Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!