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IRISH SONGS AND LYRICS 189 |
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Whatever of purity, glory, hath ever
Been linked with the name, lovely Mary, was thine ; Woe, woe, that the tomb, ruthless tyrant, should sever The tie which our spirits half broken resign.
Than Caesar of hosts—the true darling of Rome,
Far prouder was James—where pure spirits are met, The virgin, the saint—though heav'n's radiance illume Their brows—Erin's wrongs can o'ershadow them yet.
And rank be the poison, the plagues that distil
Through the heart of the spoiler that laid them in dust,
The rapt bard with the glory the nations shall fill, With the fame of his patrons, the generous, the just.
Wherever the beam of the morning is shed,
With its light the full fame of our loved ones hath shone, The deep curse of our sorrow shall burst on his head That hath hurled them, the pride of our hearts, from their throne.
The midday is dark with unnatural gloom — And a spectral lament wildly shrieked in the air
Tells all hearts that our princess lies cold in the tomb, Bids the old and the young bend in agony there! |
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