Song Of The Battle Eve.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
    There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
    And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
    We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
    When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
    With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
    With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
    Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
    But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
    No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
    Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
    Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
    Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

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

Up, Sailor Boy, 'Tis Day.

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Morality. A Familiar Epistle.

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Odes Of Anacreon - Ode IV.

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To .......

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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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.
   ...

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The Wine-Cup Is Circling.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,^[1]
    And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
    Where his sword hangs idly shining.
        When, hark! that shout
        From the vale without,--
        "Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
        Every Chief starts up
        From his foaming cup,
    And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
    And they sing such thrilling numbers,
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
    Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!
        Spear to buckler rang,
        As the minstrels sang,
    And the Sun-burst^[2] o'er them floated wide;
        While remembering the yoke
    ...

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The Song Of O'Ruark, Prince Of Breffni.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me,
    Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
    That saddened the joy of my mind.
I looked for the lamp which, she told me,
    Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned;
But, tho' darkness began to infold me,
    No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely,
    As if the loved tenant lay dead;--
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
    But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
    My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand, that had waked it so often,
    Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,
    When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro'...

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War Song. Remember The Glories Of Brien The Brave.[1]

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,^[2]
    He returns to Kinkora no more.^[3]
That star of the field, which so often hath poured
    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^[4]<...

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

Tis Gone, And For Ever.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
    Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead--
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
    Looked upward, and blest the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
    And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.

For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
    Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
    At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurled.^[1]
Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then--had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
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Thomas Moore