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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 85 |
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May God's kind angels guard him
When the fray is fierce and grim, And blunt the point of every sword
That turns its hate on him, Where round the torn yet dear green flag
The grave and lovin' throng — But the lasses of Glenwherry smile
At me for thinkin' long. |
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TURLOUGH MacSWEENEY
AHEALTH to you, Piper and your pipes silver-tongued, clear and
sweet in their crooning.
Full of the music they gathered at morn On your high heather hills from the lark on the wing, From the blackbird at eve on the blossoming thorn, From the little green linnet whose plaining they sing, And the joy and the hope in the heart of the spring, O Turlough MacSweeney !
Play us our Eire's most sorrowful songs, As she sits by her reeds near the wash of the wave, That the coldest may thrill at the count of her wrongs, That the sword may flash forth from the scabbard to
save, And the wide land awake at the wrath of the brave, O Turlough MacSweeney !
Play as the bards played in days long ago, When O'Donnell, arrayed for the foray or feast, With your kinsmen from Bannat and Fannat and Doe |
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