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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 1S3 |
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LAY OF THE DYING BARD.
The day went down and the sun's last ray
Had passed where the dying harper lay,
His snow-white locks In the breeze did play
As it swept thro' the aisles of Kincora.
"Awake, my harp!" he faintly cried,
From his eyes then flashed a gleam of pride
As he looked back on days of the regal might
When the chieftain bold and the warrior knight
And beauty in jewels and rings shone bright,
As they glanc'd thro' the halls of Kincora.
He strikes the chords from the silver strings,
A low and tuneless prelude rings;
Ah! vain the time-worn minstrel sings
A lament for the days of Kincora.
His broken murmurs melt in the air,
Tho' his voice was gone yet his soul was there
And he wept for the towers and the walls laid low,
For the halls where no more the goblets flow,
Where Joy ran high and soft cheeks did glow
To his strains in the days of Kincora.
"Wnere are ye now, ye princes all!
Who led the dance in the festive hall?
Ierne's burning tears will fall
As she dreams o'er the days of Kincora.
On Shannon's banks the wild winds mourn
For glories, alas! that no more return;
Thro' the moldering aisles dark shades appear,
The spirits of former guests are here;
Grim heroes have stol'n from their tombless bier
To sigh o'er the days of Kincora." .
The minstrel rose and brush'd away
The dews of woe on his lids that lay, *
He stood on the height o'er the waves whose spray
Once lash'd the proud halls of Kincora.
One strain of joy he wildly sung,
In the ocean stream his harp he flung,
Then sinking down by the rushing tide,
His lips grew pale and his eyes' dark pride .
Wax'd glassy and dim thro' the gloom, and died
With a smile, the last bard of Kincora. |
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THO' DARK ARE OUR SORROWS.
Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them.
And smile through our tears like a sunbeam in show'rs; There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours! But just when the chain has ceased to--pain.
And hbpe has enwreath'd it round with flow'rs, There comes a new link our spirits to sink!— Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness too brilliant to stay; But tho' 'twere the last little spark in our souls
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.
Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true; The tribute most high to a head that is royal
Is love from a heart that loves liberty, too. While cowards who blight your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array, The standard of green in front would be seen!— Oh! my life on your faith, were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast ev'ry bitter remembrance away, And show what the arm of old Erin has in it
When roused by the foe on her Prince's Day. |
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