Sing, Sweet Harp

Air -- Unknown.

SING, sweet Harp, oh sing to me

   Some song of ancient days,

Whose sounds, in this sad memory,

   Long-buried dreams shall raise; --

Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame,

   Whose light once round us shone,

Of noble pride, now turn'd to shame,

   And hopes for ever gone.

Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;

   Alike our doom is cast,

Both lost to all but memory,

   We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air

   Among thy chords doth sigh,

As if it sought some echo there,

   Of voices long gone by; --

Of chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd

   The foremost then in fame;

Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd,

   Now sleep without a name.

In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air

   Among thy chords doth sigh;

In vain it seeks an echo there

   Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round,

   Who once, in bower and hall,

Sate 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.

Air -- Cruiskeen Lawn.

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 fire-sides 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.

Air -- Planxty O'Reilly.

WHAT life like that of the bard can be --

The wandering bard, who roams as free

As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,

And, like that lark a music brings,

Within him, where'er he comes or goes --

A fount that for ever flows!

The world's to him like some playground,

Where fairies dance their moonlight round; --

It dimm'd the turf where late they trod;

The elves but seek some greener sod;

So, when less bright his scene of glee,

To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom

Without a bard to fix her bloom?

They tell us, in the moon's bright round,

Things lost in this dark world are found;

So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,

In the poet's lay live on. --

Would you have smiles that ne'er grow dim?

You've only to give them all to him,

Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,

Can lend them life, this life beyond.

And fix them high, in Poesy's sky --

Young stars that never die!

Then welcome the bard where'er he comes,

For, though he hath countless airy homes,

To which his wing excursive roves,

Yet still, from time to time, he loves

To light upon earth and find such cheer

As brightens our banquet here.

No matter how far, how fleet he flies,

You've only to light up kind young eyes,

Such signal-fires as here are given--

And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,

The minute such call to love or mirth

Proclaim's he's wanting on the earth!

Alone in Crowds to Wander On.

Air -- Shule Aroon.

ALONE in crowds to wander on,

And feel that all the charm is gone

Which voices dear and eyes beloved

Shed round us once, where'er we roved --

This, this the doom must be

Of all who've loved, and loved to see

The few bright things they thought would stay

For ever near them, die away.

Though fairer forms around us throng,

Their smiles to others all belong,

And want that charm which dwells alone

Round those the fond heart calls its own,

Where, where the sunny brow?

The long-known voice -- where are they now?

Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,

The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,

If all her art cannot call forth

One bliss like those we felt of old

From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?

No, no -- her spell in vain --

As soon could she bring back again

Those eyes themselves from out the grave,

As wake again one bliss they gave.

I've a Secret to Tell Thee.

Air -- Oh! Southern Breeze.

I'VE a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here --

   Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:

I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,

   Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;

Where Summer's wave unmurmuring dies,

   Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;

Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,

   The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,

   When stars can be heard in ocean dip,

Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,

   Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:

Like him, the boy[1], who born among

   The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,

Sits ever thus -- his only song

   To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

Song of Innisfail.

Air -- Peggy Bawn.

THEY came from a land beyond the sea,

   And now o'er the western main

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,

   From the sunny land of Spain.

"Oh, where's the isle we've seen in dreams,

   Our destined home or grave?"[1]

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,

   They swept the Atlantic wave.

And lo, where afar o'er ocean shines

   A sparkle of radiant green,

As though in that deep lay emerald mines,

   Whose light through the wave was seen.

"'Tis Innisfail[2] -- 'tis Innisfail!"

   Rings o'er the echoing sea;

While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail

   That home of the brave and free.

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,

   Where now their Day-God's eye

A look of such sunny omen gave

   As lighted up sea and sky.

Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,

   Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,

When first on their Isle of Destiny

   Our great forefathers trod.

The Night Dance.

Air -- The Nightcap.

STRIKE the gay harp! see the moon is on high,

   And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,

Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,

   Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.

Then, sound notes -- the gayest, the lightest,

   That ever took wing, when heaven look'd brightest

   Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard

   In that City of Statues described by romancers,

So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd,

   And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,

   And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us --

While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,

   And, listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?

Again, that strain! -- to hear it thus sounding

   Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding --

   Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay

   Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,

Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,

   And mingle sweet song and sunshine together.

There Are Sounds of Mirth.

Air -- The Priest in his Boots.

THERE are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,

   And lamps from every casement shown;

While voices blithe within are singing,

   That seem to say "Come," in every tone.

Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,

   My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;

Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason

   Should I the syren call obey.

And, see -- the lamps still livelier glitter,

   The syren lips more fondly sound;

No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter

   To sink in your rosy bondage bound.

Shall a bard,whom not the world in arms,

   Could bend to tyranny's rude countroul,

Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,

   And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,

   The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

And -- their laughing eyes, the while, concealing --

   Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.

For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,

   Was like that rock of the Druid race,[1]

Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,

   But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

Oh! Arranmore, Loved Arranmore.

Air -- Killdroughalt Fair.

OH! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,

   How oft I dream of thee,

And of those days when, by thy shore,

   I wander'd young and free.

Full many a path I've tried, since then,

   Through pleasure's flowery maze,

But ne'er could find the bliss again

   I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs

   At sunny morn I've stood,

With heart as bounding as the skiffs

   That danced along thy flood;

Or, when the western wave grew bright

   With daylight's parting wing,

Have sought that Eden in its light

   Which dreaming poets sing;[1]

That Eden where the immortal brave

   Dwell in a land serene --

Whose bowers beyond the shining wave

   At sunset, oft are seen.

Ah, dream too full of saddening truth!

   Those mansions o'er the main

Are like the hopes I built in youth --

   As sunny and as vain!

Lay His Sword By His Side.

Air -- If the Sea Were Ink.

LAY his sword by his side[1] -- it hath served him too well

   Not to rest near his pillow below;

To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,

   Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.

Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,

   Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave --

That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,

   And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause -- for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,

   As if breathed from his brave heart's remains; --

Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,

   Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains."

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,

   "Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,

Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep --

   It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,

   Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,

Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,

   Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.

But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use

   Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,

Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,

   Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

The Wine-Cup is Circling.

Air -- Michael Hoy.

THE wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]

And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,

Looks up, with a sigh to the trophied wall,

   Where his sword hangs idly shining.

      When, hark, that shout

      From the vale without --

   "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"

      Every Chief starts up

      From his foaming cup,

   And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,

And they sing such thrilling numbers --

'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,

   Breaking forth from their place of slumber!

      Spear to buckler rang,

      As the minstrels sang,

   And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;

      While remembering the yoke

      Which their fathers broke,

   "On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,

   O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;

While onward moved, in the light of its fame,

   That banner of Erin, towering.

      With the mingling shock

      Rung cliff and rock,

   While, rank on rank, the invaders die:

      And the shout, that last

      O'er the dying pass'd,

   Was "victory! victory!" -- the Finian's cry.

Oh, Could We Do With This World of Ours.

Air -- Basket of Oysters.

OH, could we do with this world of ours

As thou dost with thy garden bowers,

Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

What a heaven on earth we'd make it!

So bright a dwelling should be our own,

So warranted free from sigh or frown,

That angels soon would be coming down,

By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing through air,

And in themselves a lustre bear,

A stock of light, still ready there,

Whenver they wish to use it;

So in this world I'd make for thee,

Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,

And the flash of wit or poesy

Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere

Hath still some shadow hovering near,

In this new world of ours, my dear,

Such shadows will all be omitted; --

Unless they're like that graceful one,

Which when thou'rt dancing in the sun,

Still near thee, leaves a charm upon

Each spot where it hath flitted!

From This Hour the Pledge is Given.

Air -- Renardine.

FROM this hour the pledge is given,

   From this hour my soul is thine:

Come what will, from earth of heaven,

   Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.

When the proud and great stood by thee,

   None dared thy rights to spurn;

And if now they're false and fly thee,

   Shall I, too, falsely turn?

No; -- whate'er the fire that try thee,

   In the same this heart shall burn.

Though the sea, where thou embarkest,

   Offers now no friendly shore,

Light may come where all looks darkest,

   Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.

And of those past ages dreaming,

   When glory deck'd thy brow,

Oft I fondly think, though seeming

   So fallen and clouded now,

Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming --

   None so bright, so blest as thou!

The Dream of Those Days.[1]

Air -- I love you above all the rest.

THE dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er

Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore;

And even the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,

That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art;

And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd,

Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,

With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread!

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain,

Denied in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.

Silence is in Our Festal Halls.

Air -- The green Woods of Truigha.

SILENCE is in our festal halls --

   Sweet son of song![1] thy course is o'er;

In vain on thee sad Erin calls,

   Her minstrel's voice responds no more; --

All silent as the Eolian shell

   Sleeps at the close of some bright day,

When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell

   At sunny morn, hath died away.

Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,

   Awaked by music's spell, shall rise;

For, name so link'd with deathless song

   Partakes its charm and never dies;

And even within the holy fane,

   When music wafts the soul to heaven,

One thought to him, whose earliest strain

   Was echoed there, shall long be given.

But where is now the cheerful day,

   The social night, when by thy side,

He who now weaves this parting lay

   His skilless voice with thine allied;

And sung those songs whose every tone,

   When bard and minstrel long have past,

Shall still, in sweetness all their own,

   Embalm'd by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, shine alone the fame --

   Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,

From thee the borrow'd glory came,

   And at thy feet is now laid down.

Enough, if Freedom still inspire,

   His latest song, and still there be,

As evening closes round his lyre,

   One ray upon its chords from thee.