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The Song Book 271
I flew to her chamber—'twas lonely
As if the loved tenant lay dead— Ah! would it were death, and death only!
But no—the young false one had fled. And there hung the lute, that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss, While the hand that had waked it so often,
Now throbbed to my proud rival's kiss.
There teas a time, falsest of women!
When Breffhi's good sword would have sought That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dared but to doubt thee in thought! While now—oh! degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame! And, through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Thy country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane! They come to divide—to dishonour—
And tyrants they long will remain! But onward! the green banners rearing,
Go, flesh every brand to the hilt; On one side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt!
Words by Moore. Tune (from Bunting) The Pretty Girl milking her Gnu |
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