They have rushed from the pathway of honour, From the road, that their forefathers trod, But the Church of their sires-there shall brighten upon her

The smile of her LORD and her GOD!

Let them go! yes, and barter the glory,
That yet undiminish'd belongs

To the fame of her loyal, her Protestant story,
Which martyrs have borne on their tongues:
Let them barter their birthright and lose it
For the savoury pottage of Rome;

While they had it, they only retained, to abuse it,

Let them go, where their hearts are at home!

And who still hanker among us ye,

For the pomp, the parade, and the show, That Rome is displaying, why wrong us? Be fair-and be honest-and go!

We have thousands to boast of without you, Whose hand-pulse and heart-pulse are true; Rome will know you, but Protestants doubt you,

So Rome is the quarter for you!

But oh! as ye lower the old banner,
That martyrs and saints have unfurled;

As

ye leave the old vessel, for others to man her

In her battle-track over the world; Remember!—the standard you're leaving Is the blood-redden'd flag of the Cross; And the bark, on the waves of unfaithfulness heaving,

Is the vessel that never knew loss.

But the army, you join in your madness,
Is the host that makes war with the LORD;
And the ship, you have chosen, is freighted
with sadness,

For the "

cup

of His wrath" is on board!

For you-we could weep in our sorrow;
For our Church—we've no tear to bestow;
You may leave her to-day, and our Zion to-

Away from their hair,

And it weeps o'er their bosoms,

Like willow boughs there.

They have ta'en the sweet flowers

To strew the cold bed,

Where the dew and the showers

Have wept on the dead;

They have plucked the red heather
By brothers' blood dyed;

They have twined it together
To wear in their pride.

Aye! the wife and the maiden
May weep o'er the tomb,

But their wailing is laden
With praise for the doom;

And the heart, that is broken
To clasp the cold clay,

Will wear the red token,

That grew where it lay.

Oh, Erin! thy mountains

Are strewn with the slain;

Thy rivers and fountains

Flow crimson again.

While widow weeds springing,
Mourn over their grave,
And harebells seem ringing
A peal for the brave.

Oh! long have they slumbered
Beneath the green sod,

But their names are all numbered,
And known to their God:

And the true hearts that never

Fled faggot or sword,

Shall enter for ever

The joy of their Lord!