Sound mournfully, my harp; oh, breath a strain,
More sad than that which Sion’s daughters sung,
When on the willow boughs their harps they hung,
And wept for lost Jerusalem! A train
More sorrowful before my eyes appear:
They come, in chains they come! The hour of fate is near.
Erin, the heart’s best blood shall flow for thee.
It is thy groans I hear—it is thy wounds I see.
Cold sleep thy heroes in their silent grave: