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By James B. Dollard

Into the mists of the Pagan island

Bearing God’s message great Patrick came;

The Druid altars on plain and highland

Fell at the sound of his mighty name!

Swift was the conquest—with hearts upswelling

The Faith they took, and to God they swore:

That precious spark from their bosoms’ dwelling,

Man’s guile or torture should snatch no more.

And ever since, while the wide world wonders

This steadfast people their strength reveal,

As Time Earth’s kingdoms and empires sunders,

They stand by Patrick in ranks of steel!

The nations mock them, like Christ’s tormentors;

“Descend,” they cry, “from your cross of shame;

Abjure the Faith—see the road that enters

The groves of pleasure and wealth and fame!”

Like those that passed where the Cross rose dimly

Their wise beards wagging—“What fools!” they say;

But the Sons of Patrick make answer grimly:

“Our God we’ve chosen—the price we’ll pay.

“Ever about us the foes’ commotion,

The anguish sweat on our brows ne’er dry;

Our martyr’s bones strew the land and ocean,

Lone deserts echo our exiles’ cry.

“Unto our hearts is earth’s pride forbidden,

Unto our hands is its gold denied;

We do not question the Purpose hidden—

Let Him who fashioned our souls decide!

“Yet though once more to us choice were given,

And the long aeons were backward rolled,

We’d walk again before Earth and Heaven

The blood-stained pathway we walked of old!”