To-morrow let us do or die. - Thomas Campbell

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.

Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Another's sword has laid him low,
Another's and another's;
And every hand that dealt the blow—
Ah me! it was a brother's!