We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill,
For all that to life is endearing,
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the warrior’s sword is bound
With the laurel of victory,
Wherever the patriot’s brow is crowned
With the halo of liberty:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing
Thy strains have made dearer still!
Wherever the voice of mirth hath rung,
On the listening ear of night,
Wherever the soul of wit hath flung
Its flashes of vivid light:
We will drink to thee, Bard of Erin!
To the goblet’s brim we will fill;
For all that to life is endearing,
In thy strains is dearer still.
A WISH.
Oh! that I were a fairy sprite, to wander
In forest paths, o’erarched with oak and beech;
Where the sun’s yellow light, in slanting rays,
Sleeps on the dewy moss: what time the breath
Of early morn stirs the white hawthorn boughs,
And fills the air with showers of snowy blossoms.
Or lie at sunset ’mid the purple heather,
Listening the silver music that rings out
From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind.
Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea,
While one by one the evening stars shine forth
Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens
Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
THE MINSTREL’S GRAVE.
Oh let it be where the waters are meeting,
In one crystal sheet, like the summer’s sky bright!
Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating,
May throw the last glance of his vanishing light.
Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow
Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell;
Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow,
And the burthen it sings to me, nought but “farewell!”
Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing,
The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade:
Oh let it be where the moon at her rising,
May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade.