MOORE
CLXIII
THE MINSTREL BOY
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.
‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard,
‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!’
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
They shall never sound in slavery.’
Thomas Moore.
CLXIV
A SONG OF THE IRISH
Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er,
Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kincora no more!
That star of the field, which so often has pour’d
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword
To light us to victory yet!
Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair,
Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders the Danes,
That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirred not, but conquered and died!
The sun that now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain:
Oh! let him not blush when he leaves us to-night
To find that they fell there in vain!