The Savage loves his native shore,
Though rude the soil and chill the air,
Well then may Erin’s sons adore
Their isle, which nature formed so fair!
What flood reflects a shore so sweet,
As Shannon great or past’ral Bann?
Or who a friend or foe can meet,
So gen’rous as an Irishman?
His hand is rash, his heart is warm,
But principal is still his guide –
None more regrets a deed of harm,
And none forgives with nobler pride.
He may be duped, but won’t be dared; –
Fitter to practice than to plan,
He dearly earns his poor reward,
And spends it like an Irishman.
If strange or poor, for you he’ll pay,
And guide to where you safe may be ;
If you’re his guest, while e’er you stay,
His cottage holds a jubilee;
His inmost soul he will unlock,
And if he should your secrets scan,
Your confidence he scorns to mock,
For faithful is an Irishman.
By honour bound in woe or weal,
Whate’er she bids, he dares to do
Try him in fire, you’ll find him true.
He seeks not safety; let his post
Be where it ought, in danger’s van;
And if the field of fame is lost,
Twill not be by an Irishman.
Erin, loved land! from age to age,
Be thou more great, more fam’d and free!
May peace be thine, or should’st thou wage
Defensive war, cheap victory.
May plenty bloom in every field;
Which gentle breezes softly fan,
And cheerful smiles serenely gild,
The home of every Irishman.