The Parley Poem by John Banim

Ours is no quarrel that will not be ended--
Ours are not hearts to hate on to the last--
The foe still devoted, the foe still intended,
To him, and him only, our challenge we cast--
And him--even him--let him now but awake
To the love he should own for our desolate land,
And his hand we will take,
And his hand we will shake,
Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand!

And oh! toiling sleeper, when, when wilt thou break up
The fierce haggard dream of thy feverish heart,
And from its delusions of tumult awake up
To know what a dupe and a raver thou art!
Wake, wake, in the fair names of manhood and mind!
Of wisdom, of charity, mercy and ruth!
By the love thou dost find
On thy soul to its kind!
By its nature! its yearnings eternal for truth!

In the dear name of country we cannot adjure thee--
Thou lone one! no country at present thou hast--
But, up at our bidding! and we will ensure thee
A country, and love of a country, at last!
Aye! in lieu of the rage--thirst thou'rt panting to slake,
Up, up, in the name of this desecrate land,
And your hand we will take,
And your hand we will shake,
Though the blood of her children be fresh on that hand!