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IRISH MELODIES. |
127 |
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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. |
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SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.
Time — the Ninth Century.
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. |
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