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62 |
IRISH MELODIES. |
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I flew to her chamber—'twas lonely,
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead ; — Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss, While the hand that had wak'd it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women!
When Breffni's good sword would have sought That man, thro' a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought I While now—oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame ! And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane ; They come to divide — to dishonour,
And tyrants they long will remain. But onward !—the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt; On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Gruilt. |
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