A clarion voice rings out aloud:
"Rise, brothers, rise 'tis labour's call;
And you who fought from sire to son
Stand forth the battle host among.

"Rise, Irish workers, from your knees,
Fling forth your banner to the breeze.
See where its folds are tinged with red,
'Tis blood the Irish workers shed."

The worker's death I'll get today
When Connolly stood in war array,
And sent aloft with volleys three
The bright-hued flag of liberty.

We send our hail to lands afar,
Where'er our struggling brothers are:
Each shattered crown and crumbling throne
Is labour's call to claim their own.

Our toiling millions claim their own
From old Kinsale to Inishone;
No hireling's share shall they enjoy
But all therein from sea to sky.

Defeat ne'er causes joy nor pain,
We fought and fell and fought again,
But now the final die is cast
We fight for labour till the last.

"Rise, Irish workers, from your knees,
Fling forth your banner to the breeze;
See where its folds are tinged with red,
'Tis blood the Irish workers shed."