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As an Irish ballad from the 19th century testifies.
Now you have the choice of leaving your bones to bleach, accursed, unburied on Iraqi or Afghani soil ...
Hark ! a martial sound is heard
The march of soldiers, fifing, drumming;
Eyes are staring, hearts are stirred
For bold recruits the brave are coming,
Ribands flaunting, feathers gay
The sounds and sights are surely thrilling.
Dazzled village youths to-day
Will crowd to take the Saxon Shilling.
Ye whose spirits will not bow
In peace to parish tyrants longer
Ye, who wear the villain brow,
And ye who pine in hopeless hunger
Fools, without the brave man's faith
All slaves and starvelings who are willing
To sell themselves to shame and death
Accept the fatal Saxon Shilling.
Ere you from your mountains go
To feel the scourge of foreign fever,
Swear to serve the faithless foe
That lures you from your land forever !
Swear henceforth its tool to be
To slaughter trained by ceaseless drilling
Honour, home, and liberty,
Abandoned for a blood-stained Shilling.
Go - to find, mid crime and toil,
The doom to which such guilt is hurried;
Go - to leave on Indian soil
Your bones to bleach, accursed, unburied !
Go - to crush the just and brave,
Whose wrongs with wrath the world are filling;
Go - to slay each brother slave
Or spurn the blood-stained Saxon Shilling.
Irish hearts ! why should you bleed
To swell the tide of British glory
Aiding despots in their greed,
Who've changed our green so oft to gory
None, save those who wish to see
The noblest killed, the meanest killing,
And true hearts severed from the free,
Will ever take the Saxon Shilling !
Irish youths ! reserve your strength
Until an hour of glorious duty,
When Freedom's smile shall cheer at length
The land of bravery and beauty.
Bribes and threats, oh, heed no more
Let nought but Justice make you willing
To leave your own dear Island shore,
And never take again the Saxon Shilling.