Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          OH, the sight entrancing,

          When morning’s beam is glancing

                    O’er files array’d

                    With helm and blade,

          And plumes in the gay wind dancing!

          When hearts are all high beating

          And the trumpet’s voice repeating

                    That song, whose breath

                    May lead to death,

          But never to entreating.

          Oh, the sight entrancing,

          When morning’s beam is glancing

                    O’er files array’d

                    With helm and blade,

          And plumes in the gay wind dancing!

          Yet, tis not helm or feather —

          For ask yon despot, whether

                    His plumed bands

                    Could bring such hands

          And hearts as ours together.

          Leave pomps to those who need ’em —

          Give man but heart and freedom,

                    And proud he braves

                    The gaudiest slaves

          That crawl where monarchs lead ’em.

          The sword may pierce the beaver,

          Stonewalls in time may sever,

                    ’Tis mind alone,

                    Worth steel and stone,

          That keeps men free for ever.

          Oh, that sight entrancing,

          When the morning’s beam is glancing,

                    O’er files array’d

                    With helm and blade,

          And in Freedom’s cause advancing!