Irish Melodies by Thomas Moore

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	IRISH MELODIES. 33
	Happy is he o'er whose decline The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of years: — But oh! how blest they sink to rest, "Who close their eyes on victory's breast! O'er his watch-fire's fading embers Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers, "Where we tam'd his tyrant might! Never let him bind again A chain, like that we broke from then. Hark ! the horn of combat calls — Ere the golden evening falls, May we pledge that horn in triumph round!* Many a heart that now beats high, In slumber cold at night shall lie, Nor waken even at victory's sound: — But oh! how blest that hero's sleep, O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep! * " The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day."—Waijcer.