The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

      In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

      His father’s sword he has girded on,

      And his wild harp slung behind him. —

      ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard,

      ‘Though all the world betrays thee,

      One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

      One faithful harp shall praise thee!’

      The Minstrel fell! – but the foeman’s chain

      Could not bring his proud soul under;

      The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,

      For he tore its chords asunder;

      And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee,

      Thou soul of love and bravery!

      Thy songs were made for the brave and free,

      They shall never sound in slavery!’

      It was a’ for our rightfu’ King,

      We left fair Scotland’s strand;

      It was a’ for our rightfu’ King

      We e’er saw Irish land,

      My dear;

      We e’er saw Irish land.

      Now a’ is done that men can do,

      And a’ is done in vain;

      My love and native land farewell,

      For I maun cross the main,

      My dear;

      For I maun cross the main.

      He turn’d him right and round about

      Upon the Irish shore;

      And gae his bridle-reins a shake,

      With adieu for evermore,

      My dear;

      With adieu for evermore.

      The sodger from the wars returns,

      The sailor frae the main;

      But I hae parted frae my love,

      Never to meet again,

      My dear;

      Never to meet again.

      When day is gane, and night is come,

      And a’ folk bound to sleep;

      I think on him that’s far awa’,

      The lee-lang night, and weep,

      My dear;

      The lee-lang night, and weep.

      The harp that once through Tara’s halls

      The soul of music shed,

      Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls

      As if that soul were fled.

      So sleeps the pride of former days,

      So glory’s thrill is o’er,

      And hearts, that once beat high for praise,

      Now feel that pulse no more.

      No more to chiefs and ladies bright

      The harp of Tara swells:

      The chord alone, that breaks at night,

      Its tale of ruin tells.

      Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

      The only throb she gives

      Is when some heart indignant breaks,

      To show that still she lives.

      Could Love for ever

      Run like a river,

      And Time’s endeavour

      Be tried in vain —

      No other pleasure

      With this could measure;

      And like a treasure

      We’d hug the chain.

      But since our sighing

      Ends not in dying,

      And, form’d for flying,

      Love plumes his wing;

      Then for this reason

      Let’s love a season;

      But let that season be only Spring.

      When lovers parted

      Feel broken-hearted,

      And, all hopes thwarted

      Expect to die;

      A few years older,

      Ah! how much colder

      They might behold her

      For whom they sigh!

      Full fathom five thy father lies:

      Of his bones are coral made;

      Those are pearls that were his eyes:

      Nothing of him that doth fade,

      But doth suffer a sea-change

      Into something rich and strange.

      Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;

      Hark! now I hear them —

      Ding, Dong, Bell.

      Ah! what avails the sceptred race,

      Ah! what the form divine!

      What every virtue, every grace!

      Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

      Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes

      May weep, but never see,

      A night of memories and of sighs

      I consecrate to thee.

      Who is Silvia? what is she,

      That all our swains commend her?

      Holy, fair and wise is she;

      The heaven such

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