Rev. Jonathan Swift

Anonymous, "[An Alarm]" Dublin Journal (7 January 1746).

Have martial Sounds not reach'd your Ears!
Awake from Sleep of Fifty Years:
Hibernia's warlike Sons arise,
Your Liberty, your Country cries.
May Frenzy take him, or what's worse,
The holy Father's pious Curse,
Whose Politicks would tend to prove,
"It's not our Business here to move;
Who bids us unconcern'd to wait
For England to decide our Fate;
And if they lose one fatal Field,
Calmly asserts — That we must yield."
Such Policy befits a Slave,
A base-born Coward, or a Knave,
Whose Arguments are all design'd
Not to instruct us, but to blind:
But he who feels that sacred Fire
Which Truth and Liberty inspire,
Howe'er his Fortune means to frown,
No Sword decides it, but his own:
He bravely scorns what Tyrants give,
For Slavery is not to live;
And such Hibernia are the Swains,
Who cultivate thy fruitful Plains;
Their stubborn Virtue cannot bend
To Chains which France or Rome would send.
Twice twenty thousand Sons of War
Ultonia's hardy Race appear,
With Heart sincere, and Zeal unfeign'd,
With Loyalty and Faith unstain'd,
On Gallic Troops they dare to frown,
And boldly face a Rebel down.

But haste, ye Chieftains, to command,
To arm and discipline each Band;
And e'er the Foe provokes to fight,
Teach them to use their Arms arigh:
He learns too late his Sword to wield,
Whose Enemy is in the Field.

And ye, whose painful Sires have stor'd
Of Treasures up, a sacred Hoard,
Contribute largely to prepare
The Arms and Implements of War.

And, O ye Sons of Heroes slain
At Boyne, or Aghrim's well-fought Plain;
Remember what your Fathers gave,
Your Liberty they dy'd to save;
Observe, obey your rightful Lord,
In GEORGE'S Hand is Gideon's Sword.

No more, ye Patriots, mourn your SWIFT,
His free-born Spirit, heavenly Gift!
Altho' to Fate he has resign'd,
It's sure his Muse he left behind,
His Genius see reviv'd again,
The FARMER holds the Draper's Pen.