Of the simple lyric that we owe to thee—
Of the bells of Shandon
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters of the river Lee.
There’s a grave that rises on thy sward, Devizes,
Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar,
And a white stone flashes o’er Goldsmith’s ashes,
In the quiet cloister by Temple Bar;
So where’er thou sleepest, with a love that’s deepest,
Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee,