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Though the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
To smile at last;
A joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame,
His soul-felt flame,
The one-loved name.
Oh! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot,
Which first love has traced;
On Memory's waste!
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream! 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream! Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream!
Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll for
But, just when the chain
Has ceased to pain,
1 This song was written for a fète in honour of the Prince of Wales's birth-day, given by my friend, Major BRYAN, last year (1810), at his seat in the county of Kilkenny.
There comes a new link
Our spirits to sink!Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the
poles, Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay; But though’twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's day.
Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal! Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you
are true! And the tribute most high to a head that is royal, Is love from a heart, that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right, Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array;
The standard of green
In front would be seen.Oh! my life on your faith! were you summon'd
this minute, You'd cast every bitter remembrance away, And shew what the arm of old Erin has in it, When roused by the foe, on her Prince's day. He loves the green isle, and his love is recorded In hearts which have suffer'd too much to
forget; And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment re
warded, And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet!
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
Each fragment will cast
A light to the last, And thus, Erin, my country! though broken thou
art, There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will
decay; A spirit, that beams through each suffering part, And now smiles at their pain, on the Prince's
WEEP ON, WEEP ON,
Air-The Song of Sorrow.
WBEP on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o’er;
And you are men no more!
The sage's tongue hath warn’d in vain: Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again!
Weep on-perhaps in after days
They'll learn to love your name; And many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame!