For she had known adversity,
Though born in such a high degree;
In pride of power and beauty’s bloom,
Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody tomb!
LXXXV.—THE MINSTREL BOY.
THOMAS MOORE.
1. The minstrel boy to the war is gone;
In the ranks of Death you’ll find him,
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.