The Young Muleteers Of Grenada.

Oh, the joys of our evening posada,
    Where, resting, at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
    Sit and sing the sunshine away;
So merry, that even the slumbers
    That round us hung seem gone;
Till the lute's soft drowsy numbers
    Again beguile them on.
        Oh the joys, etc.

Then as each to his loved sultana
    In sleep still breathes the sigh,
The name of some black-eyed Tirana,
    Escapes our lips as we lie.
Till, with morning's rosy twinkle,
    Again we're up and gone--
While the mule-bell's drowsy tinkle
    Beguiles the rough way on.
Oh the joys of our merry posada,
    Where, resting at close of day,
We, young Muleteers of Grenada,
    Thus sing the gay moments away.

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

Lines On The Death Of Mr. Perceval.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Fudge Family In Paris Letter VI. From Phil. Fudge, Esq., To His Brother Tim Fudge, Esq., Barrister At Law.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Triumphs Of Farce.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Valley Of The Nile.

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.

Gayly Sounds The Castanet. (Maltese Air.)

Gayly sounds the castanet,
    Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
    Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
Thro' all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
    Beyond all eyes on earth.

Then, the joyous banquet spread
    On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heaven's bright sparklers overhead,
    And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
    Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved thro' many a day
    To be thus whispered here.

When the dance and feast are done,
    Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
    O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss--
    The words, whose parting to...

Thomas Moore

Nights Of Music.

Nights of music, nights of loving,
    Lost too soon, remembered long.
When we went by moonlight roving,
    Hearts all love and lips all song.
When this faithful lute recorded
    All my spirit felt to thee;
And that smile the song rewarded--
    Worth Whole years of fame to me!

Nights of song, and nights of splendor,
Filled with joys too sweet to last--
Joys that, like the star-light, tender,
While they shore no shadow cast.
Tho' all other happy hours
    From my fading memory fly,
Of, that starlight, of those bowers,
    Not a beam, a leaf may die!

Thomas Moore

Remember The Time. (The Castilian Maid.)

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades,
    When our moments so blissfully flew;
When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,
    And I blushed to be called so by you;
When I taught you to warble the gay seguadille.
    And to dance to the light castanet;
Oh, never, dear youth, let you roam where you will,
    The delight of those moments forget.

They tell me, you lovers from Erin's green isle,
    Every hour a new passion can feel;
And that soon, in the light of some lovelier smile.
    You'll forget the poor maid of Castile.
But they know not how brave in battle you are,
    Or they never could think you would rove;
For 'tis always the spirit most gallant in war
    That is fondest and truest in Love.

Thomas Moore

Twopenny Post-Bag, Intercepted Letters, Etc. Letter VI.

FROM ABDALLAH,^[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.


Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King--our Asia's treasure!
Nutmeg of Comfort: Rose of Pleasure!--
And bearest as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders.
And but left on till further orders--
Thro' London streets with turban fair,
And caftan floating to the air,
I saunter on, the admiration
Of this short-coated population--
This sewed-up race--this buttoned nation--
Who while they boast their laws so free
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live with all their lordly speeches
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.

    Yet tho' they thus their knee-pans fette...

Thomas Moore

To Joseph Atkinson, Esq.

FROM BERMUDA.^[1]


"The daylight is gone--but, before we depart,
"One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,
"The kindest, the dearest--oh! judge by the tear
"I now shed while I name him, how kind and how dear."

    'Twas thus in the shade of the Calabash-Tree,
With a few, who could feel and remember like me,
The charm that, to sweeten my goblet, I threw
Was a sigh to the past and a blessing on you.

    Oh! say, is it thus, in the mirth-bringing hour,
When friends are assembled, when wit, in full flower,
Shoots forth from the lip, under Bacchus's dew,
In blossoms of thought ever springing and new--
Do you sometimes remember, and hallow the brim
Of your cup with a sigh, as you crown it to him
Who is lonely and sad in these val...

Thomas Moore

There Are Sounds Of Mirth.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
    And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
    That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
    My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
    Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
    The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
    To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
    Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
    And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
    The nymphs their fetters around him cast,

Thomas Moore