To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low! The morning star is up -- But there's wine still in the cup, And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go; We'll take another quaff, ere we go.
'Tis true, in manliest eyes A passing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone; But what can wailing do? See, our goblet's weeping too! With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; With its tears we'll chase away our own.
But daylight's stealing on; The last that o'er us shone Saw our children around us play; The next -- ah! where shall we And those rosy urchins be? But -- no matter -- grasp thy sword and away, boy, away; No matter -- grasp thy sword and away!
Let those, who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ignobly by their fire-sides stay; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra! Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!