Oh! Harp of Erin, what glamour gay,
What dark despairing are in thy lay!
What true love slighted thy sorrow swells,
What proud hearts plighted thy rapture tell.
Round thy dim form lamenting swarm
What Banshees dread! till, glowing warm,
A heavenly iris of hope upsprings
From out the tumult that shakes thy strings.
The chief dejected with drooping brow,
Aroused, erected, is hearkening now,
The while abhorrent of shame and fear
Thy tuneful torrent invades his ear.
He calls his clan: 'Who will and can-
Your chieftain follow in Valour's van!'
Then forward thunder the gallant Gael
And death and plunder are o'er the Pale.
The child is calling through fever dreams;
When, softly falling as faery streams,
Thy magic Soontree his soul shall sweep
Into the country of blessed sleep.
To ears that heed not their longing moan
Let lovers plead not with words alone,
But seek thine aid. The haughtiest maid
Will pause by thy sweet influence swayed;
Until the ditty so poignant proves,
She melts to pity and melting loves.