Merrily Every Bosom Boundeth. (The Tyrolese Song Of Liberty.)

Merrily every bosom boundeth,
            Merrily, oh!
Where the song of Freedom soundeth,
            Merrily oh!
    There the warrior's arms
        Shed more splendor;
    There the maiden's charm's
        Shine more tender;
Every joy the land surroundeth,
    Merrily, oh! merrily, oh!

Wearily every bosom pineth,
            Wearily, oh!
Where the bond of slavery twineth
            Wearily, oh
    There the warrior's dart
        Hath no fleetness;
    There the maiden's heart
        Hath no sweetness--
Every flower of life declineth,
    Wearily, oh! wearily, oh!

Cheerily then from hill and valley,
            Cheerily, oh!
Like your native fountain sally,
            Cheerily, oh!
    If a glorious death,
        Won by bravery,
    Sweeter be than breath
        Sighed in slavery,
Round the flag of Freedom rally,
    Cheerily, oh! cheerily, oh!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

From This Hour The Pledge Is Given.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

You Remember Ellen.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Translations From Catullus. Carm. 29.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Drink Of This Cup.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Where Is The Slave.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemned to chains unholy,
    Who, could he burst
    His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decayed it,
    When thus its wing
    At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?

Farewell, Erin.--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouched and blowing,
    Than that, whose braid
    Is plucked to shade
The brows with victory glowing
We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
    The friends we've tried
    Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.

Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

Thomas Moore

Before The Battle.

By the hope within us springing,
    Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
    Chains or freedom, death or life--
    Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
    Like the day-star in the wave,
    Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

    Happy is he o'er whose decline
    The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:--
    But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
    Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
    Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
    Where we tamed his tyrant might.
Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
   ...

Thomas Moore

Peace And Glory.

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR.


Where is now the smile, that lightened
Every hero's couch of rest?
Where is now the hope, that brightened
Honor's eye and Pity's breast?
Have we lost the wreath we braided
For our weary warrior men?
Is the faithless olive faded?
Must the bay be plucked again?

Passing hour of sunny weather,
Lovely, in your light awhile,
Peace and Glory, wed together,
Wandered through our blessed isle.
And the eyes of Peace would glisten,
Dewy as a morning sun,
When the timid maid would listen
To the deeds her chief had done.

Is their hour of dalliance over?
Must the maiden's trembling feet
Waft her from her warlike lover
To the desert's still retreat?
Fare you well! with sighs we banish
Nymph ...

Thomas Moore

The Parting Before The Battle.

HE.

On to the field, our doom is sealed,
    To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
    Or set upon our graves.

SHE.

Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
    May heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
    To bring thee back to me.

HE.

On to the field, the battle-field,
    Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
    Or shine upon our graves.

Thomas Moore

Come O'er The Sea.

        Come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
        Then come o'er the sea,
        Maiden, with me,
    Come wherever the wild wind blows;
        Seasons may roll,
        But the true soul
    Burns the same, where'er it goes.

        Was not the sea
        Made for the Free,
    Land for courts and chains alone?
        Here we are slaves,
        But, on the waves,
    Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven aro...

Thomas Moore

To Liberty

O spirit of the wind and sky,
Where doth thy harp neglected lie?
Is there no heart thy bard to be,
To wake that soul of melody?
Is liberty herself a slave?
No! God forbid it! On, ye brave!

I've loved thee as the common air,
And paid thee worship everywhere:
In every soil beneath the sun
Thy simple song my heart has won.
And art thou silent? Still a slave?
And thy sons living? On, ye brave!

Gather on mountain and on plain!
Make gossamer the iron chain!
Make prison walls as paper screen,
That tyrant maskers may be seen!
Let earth as well as heaven be free!
So, on, ye brave, for liberty!

I've loved thy being from a boy:
The Highland hills were once my joy:
Then morning mists did round them lie,
Like sunshine in the happi...

John Clare