Men of the old grievous battles, men of Clare's Brigade,
Do ye hear the troops marching through the land where ye are laid,
Far from the clear running brooks, the dappled sun and shade
On the fair green hills of holy Ireland?

Ah, but not in the old fashion (men of Clare's Brigade!),
Not in the sorrow of exile your kinsmen draw the blade,
For the old trouble's ended now, its grey ghost is laid
On the fair green hills of holy Ireland.

There shall be pride and love there where sorrow dwelt before;
Kind peace shall be her portion, ay, peace from shore to shore,
And Patrick's plant springing there, springing ever more
On the fair green hills of holy Ireland!