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Of all the fair months that round the sun. |
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Oh! Arranmore, lov'd Arranmore |
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Oh banquet not in those shining bowers |
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Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers. |
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Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade. |
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Oh! could we do with this world of ours, |
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Oh for the swords of former time |
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Oh 1 had we some bright little isle of our own |
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Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle |
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Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright |
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Oh! think not my spirits are always as light |
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Oh! 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove. |
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Oh ! where's the slave so lowly |
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Oh, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead! whom we know |
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One bumper at parting! — tho' many |
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Quick! we have but a second. |
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Remember the glories of Brien the Brave. |
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Remember thee ? yes, while there's life in this heart |
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Rich and rare were the gems she wore |
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Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark |
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Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave |
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She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps. |
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She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre |
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Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water |
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Silence is in our festal halls |
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Sing—sing—Music was given. |
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Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me |
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Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high |
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