Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all;--
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!--
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.
SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.
TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.
To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.
'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
With its tears we'll chase away our own.
But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
No matter--grasp thy sword and away!
Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!
THE WANDERING BARD.
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