Chords for Song of the Irish Brigade (Confederate)

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_ _ [G] _ Not now for the songs of a nation's roms, Not the crumbs of [D] _ starking _ [G] labor,
[F] Let the rifle ring [G] and the bullets sing To the clash of the flashing [Em] _ _ _ _ [F] sabre.
There are [C] Irish ranks on the tented banks Of _ Columbia's guarded _ ocean,
And an iron clank from flank to flank Till the armed men in motion.
[F] _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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_ _ _ And the Franks' souls there clear to and bare to, While let the steel _ _ beside them,
And the Borghese with the strength of age Till the grave of the _ bayons hide them. _ _ _
It seems to be he, Male Larry, Whose sword's _ avenging _ glory
_ Must light the fight and smite for right Like a blinding _ golden _ story.
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_ _ [G] _ _ [D] _ _ _ [F] _
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_ _ _ _ [C] _ _ _ [F] _
_ _ _ With pale upright and _ panicked life Shall luster the _ Yankees' brave somehow,
Here a Celtic race from their [Bb] battle is [F] charged To their [Dm] shout of Bah-bah [C]-bah-lah.
[F] _ _
By the souls of old, by the land we love, Over tears, bleeding _ _ patience,
_ The sled is rocked, that shall smash to moth, The whole brazen fire of _ reason. _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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_ _ [G] _ _ [C] _ _ _ [F] _
_ _ _ [G] _ _ _ _ [Bb] _
_ [F] _ _ _ [C] _ _ _ [F] _
_ _ The _ Irish green shall again be [C] seen As our Irish _ fathers bore it,
_ Warning the wind from the south behind And the Yankee [F] rout _ before it. _ _ _
O'Neill's red hand shall forge the land, Rain a fire on the men and _ castle,
Till the Lincoln's mates in their own [G] code They [F]
sponger from the blaze of _ battle. _ _ _ _ _ _ _
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_ _ [G] _ _ [C] _ _ [F] _ _
_ _ _ _ [G] _ _ _ [Bb] _
_ [F] _ _ _ [C] _ _ _ [F] _
_ _ The law and him that rest on _ Columbia's rest, And the voice of _ Truman's kind evil
Will _ _ exorcise from the [Bb] rescue [C] rise Our [F] bodies and [C] the rightful.
_ [F] _ For the _ tyrants alive, for [G] we thrive, [F] A union of dissolvers,
_ _ _ The best we can are _ stalwart And _ _ _ _ Columbia's _ underbossers.
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[F] _ _ _ _ [D] _ _ _ [F] _
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_ _ _ O'er shall a march by _ triumphal hour, O'er may so well the slaughter, _ _
Our rum shall roll from the _ capital, O'er the soul of sateful _ [C] _ water.
_ [F] The righteous meeting both to the lord of host, For _ judgment's piling of solemn,
_ _ Your _ fanatic horde to the edge of the sword, Is doomed like [Dm] square and [Em] column.
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