The minstrel boy to the war has gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him.
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.

Land of Song! cried the warrior bard,
Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!

The minstrel fell, but the foeman's chains
Could not bring this proud soul under.
The harp he loved never spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder.

And said, no chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free
They shall never sound in slavery!