Though we’ve cursed the name of England:  though in faith
          and blood we’re aliens: 
    Though we’re bred to hate the Union as an Irishman should do—­
  Yet we’re shoulder still to shoulder in the Englishman’s battalions,
    And the soldier’s pride in Erin is the pledge that he’ll be true. 
  No! if e’er the day is coming of an Irish host’s uniting,
    When they march to meet the Saxon, with the green above the red,
  ’Mid the ranks of England’s foemen ’tisn’t we that will be fighting—­
    —­And it isn’t Mr Doolan will be marching at their head!