Back to Section 5.
Forward to Section 7.
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.
(Time -- the Ninth Century)
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!
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!
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!"
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.
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!
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!
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.
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.