The Watchman.

A TRIO.


WATCHMAN.

Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest--
    How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.

Past one o'clock--past one.

Yet stay a moment longer--
    Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
    The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.

Past two o'clock--past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee--
    The hours must sure go wrong,
For when they're past without thee,
    They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Again that dreadful warning!
    Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning--
    So now, indeed, good night.

WATCHMAN.

Past three o'clock--past three.

Goodnight, good night.

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

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode LXI.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

To The Honorable W. R. Spencer.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Song.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Odes Of Anacreon - Ode IX.

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.

The Evening Gun.

Remember'st thou that setting sun,
    The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!--the sounds appeared to sweep
    Far o'er the verge of day,

Till, into realms beyond the deep,
    They seemed to die away.
Oft, when the toils of day are done,
    In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
    Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!--and while, o'er billows curled.
    The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
    Like them to die away.

Thomas Moore

Wake Thee, My Dear.

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming
    Till darker hours will keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Moments there are we number,
    Moments of pain and care,
Which to oblivious slumber
    Gladly the wretch would spare.

But now,--who'd think of dreaming
    When Love his watch should keep?
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

If e'er the fates should sever
    My life and hopes from thee, love,
The sleep that lasts for ever
    Would then be sweet to me, love;
But now,--away with dreaming!
    Till darker hours 'twill keep;
While such a moon is beaming,
    'Tis wrong towards Heaven to sleep.

Thomas Moore

The Watchman

'Watchman, what of the night?'
    'The stars are out in the sky;
And the merry round moon will be rising soon,
    For us to go sailing by.'

'Watchman, what of the night?'
    'The tide flows in from the sea;
There's water to float a little cockboat
    Will carry such fishers as we.'

'Watchman, what of the night?'
    'The night is a fruitful time;
When to many a pair are born children fair,
    To be christened at morning chime.'

1849.

Charles Kingsley

Rondeau.

"Good night! good night!"--And is it so?
And must I from my Rosa go?
Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,
And I'll repeat it o'er and o'er,
Till the first glance of dawning light
Shall find us saying, still, "Good night."

And still "Good night," my Rosa, say--
But whisper still, "A minute stay;"
And I will stay, and every minute
Shall have an age of transport in it;
Till Time himself shall stay his flight,
To listen to our sweet "Good night."

"Good night!" you'll murmur with a sigh,
And tell me it is time to fly:
And I will vow, will swear to go,
While still that sweet voice murmurs "No!"
Till slumber seal our weary sight--
And then, my love, my soul, "Good night!"

Thomas Moore

The Dawn Is Breaking O'er Us.

The dawn is breaking o'er us,
    See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've day's long light before us,
What sport shall we pursue?
The hunt o'er hill and lea?
The sail o'er summer sea?
Oh let not hour so sweet
Unwinged by pleasure fleet.
The dawn is breaking o'er us,
    See, heaven hath caught its hue!
We've days long light before us,
    What sport shall we pursue?

But see, while we're deciding,
    What morning sport to play,
The dial's hand is gliding,
    And morn hath past away!
Ah, who'd have thought that noon
    Would o'er us steal so soon,--
That morn's sweet hour of prime
    Would last so short a time?
But come, we've day before us,
    Still heaven looks bright and blue;
Quick, quick, ere eve comes o'er us,
 ...

Thomas Moore

At Night.

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At night, when all is still around.
How sweet to hear the distant sound
    Of footstep, coming soft and light!
What pleasure in the anxious beat,
With which the bosom flies to meet
    That foot that comes so soft at night!

And then, at night, how sweet to say
"'Tis late, my love!" and chide delay,
    Tho' still the western clouds are bright;
Oh! happy, too, the silent press,
The eloquence of mute caress.
    With those we love exchanged at night!

Thomas Moore