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The Song Book 3
When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall; Hang it up at that friendly door Where weary travellers love to call: Then, if some bard who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh ! let one thought of its master waken Your warmest smile for the child of song.
Keep this cup, which now is o'erflowing, To grace your revel when I'm at rest; Never, oh, never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blest! But when some warm devoted lover, To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Oh ! then my spirit around shall hover, And hallow each drop that foams for him.
Words by Moore. From the Irish Melodies.