Thomas Francis Meagher, fly the green flag high

Do not let it touch the ground, don't let its spirit die.

You never lost your colors, you always faced the foe

So the wrath of mighty Ireland would be the last they'd know.

You drew your sword in battle as around you brave men fell

Leading them up the slope into the jaws of hell.

Upon the slopes of Fredericksburg, upon the killing field

Despite the hail of fire, your men – you! – would not yield