Napoleon's banners at BoulogneArm'd in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.They suffer'd him—I know not how—Unprison'd on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain half-way over;With envy they could reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.At last, when care had banish'd sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launch'd a tiny boatBy mighty working.Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyondDescription wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,Or cross'd a ferry.For ploughing in the salt sea-field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,No sail—no rudder.From neighbouring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipp'd he would have pass'dThe foaming billows—But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And in his wonted attitude,Address'd the stranger:—'Rash man that wouldst yon channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassion'd.''I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;'But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother!''And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,'Ye've both my favour fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son.'He gave the tar a piece of gold,And with a flag of truce commandedHe should be shipp'd to England Old,And safely landed.Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner plain and hearty;But never changed the coin and giftOf Bonaparte.
Napoleon's banners at BoulogneArm'd in our island every freeman,His navy chanced to capture onePoor British seaman.
They suffer'd him—I know not how—Unprison'd on the shore to roam;And aye was bent his longing browOn England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flightOf birds to Britain half-way over;With envy they could reach the whiteDear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,Than this sojourn would have been dearer,If but the storm his vessel broughtTo England nearer.
At last, when care had banish'd sleep,He saw one morning—dreaming—doating,An empty hogshead from the deepCome shoreward floating;
He hid it in a cave, and wroughtThe livelong day laborious; lurkingUntil he launch'd a tiny boatBy mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyondDescription wretched: such a wherryPerhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond,Or cross'd a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt sea-field,It would have made the boldest shudder;Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd,No sail—no rudder.
From neighbouring woods he interlacedHis sorry skiff with wattled willows;And thus equipp'd he would have pass'dThe foaming billows—
But Frenchmen caught him on the beach,His little Argo sorely jeering;Till tidings of him chanced to reachNapoleon's hearing.
With folded arms Napoleon stood,Serene alike in peace and danger;And in his wonted attitude,Address'd the stranger:—
'Rash man that wouldst yon channel passOn twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;Thy heart with some sweet British lassMust be impassion'd.'
'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad;'But—absent long from one another—Great was the longing that I hadTo see my mother!'
'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said,'Ye've both my favour fairly won;A noble mother must have bredSo brave a son.'
He gave the tar a piece of gold,And with a flag of truce commandedHe should be shipp'd to England Old,And safely landed.
Our sailor oft could scantly shiftTo find a dinner plain and hearty;But never changed the coin and giftOf Bonaparte.
A parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mullah's shore.To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew grey.At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mullah's shore;He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
A parrot, from the Spanish main,Full young and early caged came o'er,With bright wings, to the bleak domainOf Mullah's shore.
To spicy groves where he had wonHis plumage of resplendent hue,His native fruits, and skies, and sun,He bade adieu.
For these he changed the smoke of turf,A heathery land and misty sky,And turned on rocks and raging surfHis golden eye.
But petted in our climate cold,He lived and chattered many a day:Until with age, from green and goldHis wings grew grey.
At last when blind, and seeming dumb,He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,A Spanish stranger chanced to comeTo Mullah's shore;
He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,The bird in Spanish speech replied;Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech,Dropt down, and died.
On Linden when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle blade,And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hill, with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser rolling rapidly.'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulph'rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry.Few, few shall part where many meet;The snow shall be their winding-sheet;And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
On Linden when the sun was low,All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sightWhen the drum beat at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle blade,And furious every charger neighedTo join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hill, with thunder riven;Then rushed the steed, to battle driven;And louder than the bolts of HeavenFar flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden's hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet;The snow shall be their winding-sheet;And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier's sepulchre.
Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their bloodMen whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on land and flood:Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,Sidney's matchless shade is yours,—Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a thousand Agincourts!We're the sons of sires that baffledCrown'd and mitred tyranny:They defied the field and scaffold,For their birthright—so will we.
Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their bloodMen whose undegenerate spiritHas been proved on land and flood:
Yours are Hampden's, Russell's glory,Sidney's matchless shade is yours,—Martyrs in heroic story,Worth a thousand Agincourts!
We're the sons of sires that baffledCrown'd and mitred tyranny:They defied the field and scaffold,For their birthright—so will we.
Come all ye jolly shepherdsThat whistle through the glen,I'll tell ye of a secretThat courtiers dinna ken;What is the greatest blissThat the tongue o' man can name?'Tis to woo a bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame.When the kye comes hame,When the kye comes hame,'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk,When the kye comes hame.'Tis not beneath the coronet,Nor canopy of state,'Tis not on couch of velvet,Nor arbour of the great—'Tis beneath the spreading birk,In the glen without the name,Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,When the kye comes hame.See yonder pawky shepherdThat lingers on the hill—His yowes are in the fauld,And his lambs are lying still;Yet he downa gang to bed,For his heart is in a flameTo meet his bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame.When the little wee bit heartRises high in the breast,And the little wee bit starsRise bright in the east,O there's a joy sae dear,That the heart can hardly frame,Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,When the kye comes hame.Then since all nature joinsIn this love without alloy,O' wha wad prove a traitorTo nature's dearest joy?Or wha wad choose a crown,Wi' its pearls and its fame,And miss his bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame?When the kye comes hame,When the kye comes hame,'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk,When the kye comes hame.
Come all ye jolly shepherdsThat whistle through the glen,I'll tell ye of a secretThat courtiers dinna ken;What is the greatest blissThat the tongue o' man can name?'Tis to woo a bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame,When the kye comes hame,'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk,When the kye comes hame.
'Tis not beneath the coronet,Nor canopy of state,'Tis not on couch of velvet,Nor arbour of the great—'Tis beneath the spreading birk,In the glen without the name,Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,When the kye comes hame.
See yonder pawky shepherdThat lingers on the hill—His yowes are in the fauld,And his lambs are lying still;Yet he downa gang to bed,For his heart is in a flameTo meet his bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame.
When the little wee bit heartRises high in the breast,And the little wee bit starsRise bright in the east,O there's a joy sae dear,That the heart can hardly frame,Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,When the kye comes hame.
Then since all nature joinsIn this love without alloy,O' wha wad prove a traitorTo nature's dearest joy?Or wha wad choose a crown,Wi' its pearls and its fame,And miss his bonny lassieWhen the kye comes hame?
When the kye comes hame,When the kye comes hame,'Tween the gloamin' and the mirk,When the kye comes hame.
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth,Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!
Bird of the wilderness,Blithesome and cumberless,Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!Wild is thy lay and loud,Far in the downy cloud,Love gives it energy, love gave it birth,Where, on thy dewy wing,Where art thou journeying?Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,O'er moor and mountain green,O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,Over the cloudlet dim,Over the rainbow's rim,Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!Then, when the gloaming comes,Low in the heather blooms,Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!Emblem of happiness,Blest is thy dwelling-place—O to abide in the desert with thee!
'Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle?And what do you carry there?''I'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman,To shift my sheep their lair.'Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,An' a gude lang stride took he:'I trow thou to be a feck auld carle,Will ye shaw the way to me?'And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle,Adown by the greenwood side;'Light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman,For here ye canny ride.'He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed,An' lightly down he sprang:Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat,Whare the gowden tassels hang.He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle,An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree;An' wha was it but the young Maxwell!An' his gude brown sword drew he!'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron!An' ye killed my brethren three!Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister,I loved as the light o' my e'e!'Draw out thy sword, thou vile South'ron!Red wat wi' blude o' my kin!That sword it crapped the bonniest flowerE'er lifted its head to the sun!'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father!There's twa for my brethren three!An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,Wham I loved as the light o' my e'e.'
'Where gang ye, thou silly auld carle?And what do you carry there?''I'm gaun to the hillside, thou sodger gentleman,To shift my sheep their lair.'
Ae stride or twa took the silly auld carle,An' a gude lang stride took he:'I trow thou to be a feck auld carle,Will ye shaw the way to me?'
And he has gane wi' the silly auld carle,Adown by the greenwood side;'Light down and gang, thou sodger gentleman,For here ye canny ride.'
He drew the reins o' his bonny gray steed,An' lightly down he sprang:Of the comeliest scarlet was his weir coat,Whare the gowden tassels hang.
He has thrown aff his plaid, the silly auld carle,An' his bonnet frae 'boon his bree;An' wha was it but the young Maxwell!An' his gude brown sword drew he!
'Thou killed my father, thou vile South'ron!An' ye killed my brethren three!Whilk brake the heart o' my ae sister,I loved as the light o' my e'e!
'Draw out thy sword, thou vile South'ron!Red wat wi' blude o' my kin!That sword it crapped the bonniest flowerE'er lifted its head to the sun!
'There's ae sad stroke for my dear auld father!There's twa for my brethren three!An' there's ane to thy heart for my ae sister,Wham I loved as the light o' my e'e.'
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa',The bonny white rose it is withering an' a';But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!O there's naught frae ruin my country can save,But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e,'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.'Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.
Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,The larks shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o' loyalty's begun for to fa',The bonny white rose it is withering an' a';But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!
O there's naught frae ruin my country can save,But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,That a' the noble martyrs wha died for loyaltie,May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save,The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e,'I'll shine on ye yet in yer ain countrie.'Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be,Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a landsman cry;But give to me the snoring breeze,And white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashing free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,A wind that follows fast,And fills the white and rustling sail,And bends the gallant mast;And bends the gallant mast, my boys,While, like the eagle free,Away the good ship flies, and leavesOld England on the lee.
O for a soft and gentle wind!I heard a landsman cry;But give to me the snoring breeze,And white waves heaving high;And white waves heaving high, my boys,The good ship tight and free—The world of waters is our home,And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,And lightning in yon cloud;And hark the music, mariners,The wind is piping loud;The wind is piping loud, my boys,The lightning flashing free—While the hollow oak our palace is,Our heritage the sea.
Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,Mirk is the night and rainie O,Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,I'll gang and see my Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;My kind and winsome Nanie O,She holds my heart in love's dear bands,And nane can do 't but Nanie O.In preaching-time sae meek she stands,Sae saintly and sae bonny O,I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,For thieving looks at Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;The world's in love with Nanie O;That heart is hardly worth the wearThat wadna love my Nanie O.My breast can scarce contain my heart,When dancing she moves finely O;I guess what heaven is by her eyes,They sparkle sae divinely O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O,The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O;Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,And says, I dwell with Nanie O.Tell not, thou star at grey daylight,O'er Tinwald-tap sae bonny O,My footsteps 'mang the morning dewWhen coming frae my Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;Nane ken o' me and Nanie O;The stars and moon may tell 't aboon,They winna wrang my Nanie O!
Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,Mirk is the night and rainie O,Though heaven and earth should mix in storm,I'll gang and see my Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;My kind and winsome Nanie O,She holds my heart in love's dear bands,And nane can do 't but Nanie O.
In preaching-time sae meek she stands,Sae saintly and sae bonny O,I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,For thieving looks at Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;The world's in love with Nanie O;That heart is hardly worth the wearThat wadna love my Nanie O.
My breast can scarce contain my heart,When dancing she moves finely O;I guess what heaven is by her eyes,They sparkle sae divinely O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O,The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie O;Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair,And says, I dwell with Nanie O.
Tell not, thou star at grey daylight,O'er Tinwald-tap sae bonny O,My footsteps 'mang the morning dewWhen coming frae my Nanie O;My Nanie O, my Nanie O;Nane ken o' me and Nanie O;The stars and moon may tell 't aboon,They winna wrang my Nanie O!
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There's not a breath the blue wave to curl!But, when the wind blows off the shore,Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!Ottawa's tide! this trembling moonShall see us float o'er thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.Soon as the woods on shore look dim,We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.Row, brothers, row! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Why should we yet our sail unfurl?There's not a breath the blue wave to curl!But, when the wind blows off the shore,Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Ottawa's tide! this trembling moonShall see us float o'er thy surges soon.Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast,The rapids are near, and the daylight's past!
Go where glory waits thee,But while fame elates thee,Oh, still remember me.When the praise thou meetestTo thine ear is sweetest,Oh, then remember me.Other arms may press thee,Dearer friends caress thee,All the joys that bless theeSweeter far may be;But when friends are nearest,And when joys are dearest,Oh, then remember me.When at eve thou rovestBy the star thou lovest,Oh, then remember me.Think, when home returning,Bright we've seen it burning.Oh, thus remember me.Oft as summer closes,When thine eye reposesOn its lingering roses,Once so loved by thee,Think of her who wove them,Her who made thee love them,Oh, then remember me.When, around thee dying,Autumn leaves are lying,Oh, then remember me.And, at night, when gazingOn the gay hearth blazing,Oh, still remember me.Then, should music, stealingAll the soul of feeling,To thy heart appealing,Draw one tear from thee;Then let memory bring theeStrains I used to sing thee,—Oh, then remember me.
Go where glory waits thee,But while fame elates thee,Oh, still remember me.When the praise thou meetestTo thine ear is sweetest,Oh, then remember me.Other arms may press thee,Dearer friends caress thee,All the joys that bless theeSweeter far may be;But when friends are nearest,And when joys are dearest,Oh, then remember me.
When at eve thou rovestBy the star thou lovest,Oh, then remember me.Think, when home returning,Bright we've seen it burning.Oh, thus remember me.Oft as summer closes,When thine eye reposesOn its lingering roses,Once so loved by thee,Think of her who wove them,Her who made thee love them,Oh, then remember me.
When, around thee dying,Autumn leaves are lying,Oh, then remember me.And, at night, when gazingOn the gay hearth blazing,Oh, still remember me.Then, should music, stealingAll the soul of feeling,To thy heart appealing,Draw one tear from thee;Then let memory bring theeStrains I used to sing thee,—Oh, then remember me.
The harp that once through Tara's halls,The soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory's thrill is o'er,And hearts, that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more.No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone, that breaks at night,Its tale of ruin tells.Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.
The harp that once through Tara's halls,The soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's wallsAs if that soul were fled.So sleeps the pride of former days,So glory's thrill is o'er,And hearts, that once beat high for praise,Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies brightThe harp of Tara swells:The chord alone, that breaks at night,Its tale of ruin tells.Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,The only throb she givesIs when some heart indignant breaks,To show that still she lives.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;But, oh! her beauty was far beyondHer sparkling gems or snow-white wand.'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,As not to be tempted by woman or gold?''Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,No son of Erin will offer me harm:For, though they love women and golden storeSir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.On she went, and her maiden smileIn safety lighted her round the green isle;And blest for ever is she who reliedUpon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.
Rich and rare were the gems she wore,And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;But, oh! her beauty was far beyondHer sparkling gems or snow-white wand.
'Lady, dost thou not fear to stray,So lone and lovely, through this bleak way?Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'
'Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,No son of Erin will offer me harm:For, though they love women and golden storeSir Knight! they love honour and virtue more.
On she went, and her maiden smileIn safety lighted her round the green isle;And blest for ever is she who reliedUpon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no—it was something more exquisite still.'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no—it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve,When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;—Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.He had lived for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams restWhen they promise a glorious morrow;They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,From her own loved island of sorrow.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,And lovers are round her sighing;But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,Every note which he loved awaking;—Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,They were all that to life had entwined him;Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams restWhen they promise a glorious morrow;They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,From her own loved island of sorrow.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charmsWhich I gaze on so fondly to-day,Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,Like fairy-gifts fading away,Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,Let thy loveliness fade as it will,And around the dear ruin each wish of my heartWould entwine itself verdantly still.It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,To which time will but make thee more dear;No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close,As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,The same look which she turned when he rose.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charmsWhich I gaze on so fondly to-day,Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,Like fairy-gifts fading away,Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,Let thy loveliness fade as it will,And around the dear ruin each wish of my heartWould entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear,That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,To which time will but make thee more dear;No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,But as truly loves on to the close,As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,The same look which she turned when he rose.
Oh, the days are gone, when Beauty brightMy heart's chain wove;When my dream of life from morn till nightWas love, still love.New hope may bloom,And days may comeOf milder, calmer beam,But there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs love's young dream;No, there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs love's young dream.Though the bard to purer fame may soar,When wild youth's past;Though he wins the wise, who frown'd before,To smile at last;He'll never meetA joy so sweet,In all his noon of fame,As when first he sung to woman's earHis soul-felt flame,And, at every close, she blushed to hearThe one loved name.No—that hallowed form is ne'er forgotWhich first love traced;Still it lingering haunts the greenest spotOn memory's waste.'Twas odour fledAs soon as shed;'Twas morning's wingèd dream;'Twas a light there ne'er can shine againOn life's dull stream:Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine againOn life's dull stream.
Oh, the days are gone, when Beauty brightMy heart's chain wove;When my dream of life from morn till nightWas love, still love.New hope may bloom,And days may comeOf milder, calmer beam,But there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs love's young dream;No, there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar,When wild youth's past;Though he wins the wise, who frown'd before,To smile at last;He'll never meetA joy so sweet,In all his noon of fame,As when first he sung to woman's earHis soul-felt flame,And, at every close, she blushed to hearThe one loved name.
No—that hallowed form is ne'er forgotWhich first love traced;Still it lingering haunts the greenest spotOn memory's waste.'Twas odour fledAs soon as shed;'Twas morning's wingèd dream;'Twas a light there ne'er can shine againOn life's dull stream:Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine againOn life's dull stream.
'Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,To give sigh for sigh.I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love's shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie witheredAnd fond ones are flown,Oh, who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?
'Tis the last rose of summerLeft blooming alone;All her lovely companionsAre faded and gone;No flower of her kindred,No rosebud is nigh,To reflect back her blushes,To give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,To pine on the stem;Since the lovely are sleeping,Go sleep thou with them.Thus kindly I scatterThy leaves o'er the bed,Where thy mates of the gardenLie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,When friendships decay,And from love's shining circleThe gems drop away!When true hearts lie witheredAnd fond ones are flown,Oh, who would inhabitThis bleak world alone?
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,'Though 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 chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,For he tore its cords asunder;And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the brave and free,They shall never sound in slavery!'
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,'Though 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 chainCould not bring his proud soul under;The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,For he tore its cords asunder;And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,Thou soul of love and bravery!Thy songs were made for the brave and free,They shall never sound in slavery!'
The time I've lost in wooing,In watching and pursuingThe light that liesIn woman's eyes,Has been my heart's undoing.Though Wisdom oft has sought me,I scorned the lore she brought me,My only booksWere women's looks,And folly's all they've taught me.Her smile when Beauty granted,I hung with gaze enchanted,Like him the SpriteWhom maids by nightOft meet in glen that's haunted.Like him, too, Beauty won me;But while her eyes were on me,If once their rayWas turned away,Oh, winds could not outrun me.And are those follies going?And is my proud heart growingToo cold or wiseFor brilliant eyesAgain to set it glowing?No—vain, alas! th' endeavourFrom bonds so sweet to sever;—Poor Wisdom's chanceAgainst a glanceIs now as weak as ever.
The time I've lost in wooing,In watching and pursuingThe light that liesIn woman's eyes,Has been my heart's undoing.Though Wisdom oft has sought me,I scorned the lore she brought me,My only booksWere women's looks,And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,I hung with gaze enchanted,Like him the SpriteWhom maids by nightOft meet in glen that's haunted.Like him, too, Beauty won me;But while her eyes were on me,If once their rayWas turned away,Oh, winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?And is my proud heart growingToo cold or wiseFor brilliant eyesAgain to set it glowing?No—vain, alas! th' endeavourFrom bonds so sweet to sever;—Poor Wisdom's chanceAgainst a glanceIs now as weak as ever.
Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.When I remember allThe friends so link'd together,I've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fledWhose garlands deadAnd all but he departed!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
Oft in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Fond Memory brings the lightOf other days around me:The smiles, the tearsOf boyhood's years,The words of love then spoken;The eyes that shone,Now dimm'd and gone,The cheerful hearts now broken!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
When I remember allThe friends so link'd together,I've seen around me fallLike leaves in wintry weather,I feel like oneWho treads aloneSome banquet-hall deserted,Whose lights are fledWhose garlands deadAnd all but he departed!Thus in the stilly nightEre slumber's chain has bound me,Sad Memory brings the lightOf other days around me.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,That host with their banners at sunset were seen:Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.The dew of the morningSank chill on my brow—It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame;I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:—Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.In secret we met—In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.
When we two partedIn silence and tears,Half broken-heartedTo sever for years,Pale grew thy cheek and cold,Colder thy kiss;Truly that hour foretoldSorrow to this.
The dew of the morningSank chill on my brow—It felt like the warningOf what I feel now.Thy vows are all broken,And light is thy fame;I hear thy name spoken,And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,A knell to mine ear;A shudder comes o'er me—Why wert thou so dear?They know not I knew thee,Who knew thee too well:—Long, long shall I rue thee,Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met—In silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?—With silence and tears.
There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmèd ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me:When, as if its sound were causingThe charmèd ocean's pausing,The waves lie still and gleaming,And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weavingHer bright chain o'er the deep;Whose breast is gently heaving,As an infant's asleep:So the spirit bows before thee,To listen and adore thee;With a full but soft emotion,Like the swell of Summer's ocean.