The mourning Muse of Thestylis.
Ome forth ye nymphs! come forth! forsake your watery bowers!
Forsake your mossy caves; and help me to lament.
Help me to tune my doleful notes to gurgling sound
Of Liffey's tumbling streams. Come let salt tears of ours,
Mix with his waters fresh. O come let one consent
Join us to mourn with wailful plaints the deadly wound
Which fatal clap hath made, decreed by higher powers;