WRITTEN
IN
IRELAND
.
How
blest
would
be
Iërne's
isle
,
Were
bigotry
and
all
it's
guile
Chac'd
as
a
cloud
away
;
Then
would
Religion
rear
her
head
,
And
sweet
Contentment
round
her
spread
,
Like
a
new
dawn
of
day
.
Come
then
,
oh
come
,
thou
Truth
divine
!
With
double
radiance
deign
to
shine
,
Thy
heavenly
light
expand
;
'Tis
thine
to
chase
these
clouds
of
night
,
Which
darken
and
confound
the
sight
In
this
divided
land
.
Attendant
on
thy
prosp'rous
train
I
see
sweet
Peace
with
honest
gain
Spread
wide
her
liberal
hand
,
While
Discord
,
mask'd
deep
disguise
,
Abash'd
from
forth
her
presence
flies
,
Struck
by
her
magic
wand
.
Around
,
where
now
in
ruins
lie
Thy
sacred
altars
,
I
espy
Fair
Order
rear
each
pile
,
Whilst
o'er
thy
wilds
forlorn
and
waste
,
Lo
,
Industry
with
nimble
haste
Makes
hill
and
valley
smile
.
No
more
thy
sons
in
fell
despite
,
A
murderous
band
array'd
in
white
,
Shall
deal
destruction
round
;
Each
man
beneath
his
vine
shall
rest
,
No
more
by
Bigotry
opprest
,
But
Truth
by
Peace
be
crown'd
.
Then
shall
Iërne
tune
her
lyre
,
And
with
united
voice
conspire
To
hail
her
happy
state
;
All
hail
,
Iërne
,
Nature's
pride
,
No
more
shall
wars
thy
land
divide
,
Wert
thou
as
good
as
great
.