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IRISH MELODIES. |
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Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You 'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet. The gem may be broke By many a stroke, But nothing can cloud its native ray ; Each fragment will cast A light to the last,— And thus Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will decay; A spirit which beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day. |
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WEEP ON, WEEP ON.
Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more. In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain, Oh, Freedom ! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again ! |
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