Bear witness of Catholic Ireland, what sons of what sires at her breasts are bred.

Winds are pitiful, waves are merciful, tempest and storm are kind:

The waters that smite may spare, and the thunder is deaf, and the lightning is blind:

Of these perchance at his need may a man, though they know it not, yet find grace;

But grace, if another be hardened against him, he gets not at this man's face.

For his ear that hears and his eye that sees the wreck and the wail of men,

And his heart that relents not within him, but hungers, are like as the wolf's in his den.

Worthy are these to worship their master, the murderous Lord of lies,

Who hath given to the pontiff his servant the keys of the pit and the keys of the skies.

Wild famine and red-shod rapine are cruel, and bitter with blood are their feasts;

But fiercer than famine and redder than rapine the hands and the hearts of priests.

God, God bade these to the battle; and here, on a land by his servants trod,

They perish, a lordly blood-offering, subdued by the hands of the servants of God.

These also were fed of his priests with faith, with the milk of his word and the wine;

These too are fulfilled with the spirit of darkness that guided their quest divine.

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And here, cast up from the ravening sea on the mild land's merciful breast,

This comfort they find of their fellows in worship; this guerdon is theirs of their quest.

Death was captain, and doom was pilot, and darkness the chart of their way;

Night and hell had in charge and in keeping the host of the foes of day.

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