When you honor in song and in story,
The Gods of our old Pagan kin,
Whose blessings have covered with glory,
Full many a mountain and glen;
Forget not the Gods of our ancestors,
Who'll rally our bravest and best,
When Ireland is Christian and bleeding,
And looks for its hope to the West.

So here's to the Gods of our ancestors,
Who'll rally our bravest and best,
When Ireland is Christian and bleeding --
Hurrah! for the Gods of the West.

O the Sidhe hills with glory will shine then,
On the eve of our bright freedom day,
When the Gods we've been wearily waiting,
Sail back from the land of the Fey!
And over Ireland sing the Druids,
Awakening in every breast,
A fire that can never be quenched friends,
Among the true Celts of the West.

The land will be ours 'e're the midnight,
And high over every town,
Our Pagan prayers then will be floating,
Before the next sun has gone down.
We'll gather to speed the good work, our kin,
The Heathen back unto their home;
And history will watch as we send back,
The preachers to London and Rome.

So pledge us the Old Gods of Ireland,
The Dagda and Lugh and Danu;
Whose return, with the trumpet of battle,
Will bring hope to Their children anew.
As the Old Gods have brought to Their feasting halls,
From many a valley and hill,
The Pagans who fell, so They're here friends,
To lead us to victory still!

Though all the bright beauty we cherished,
Went down 'neath the churches and woe;
The spirits of old still are with us,
Who never will bend to the foe.
And the Old Gods are ready whenever,
Whe loud rolling tuck of the drum,
Rings out to awaken the Pagans,
And tell us our morning has come!