O harp of Erin

O harp of Erin thou art now laid low,

For he the last of all his race is gone:

And now no more the minstrel's verse shall flow,

That sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone:

The hand is cold that with a poet's fire

Could sweep in magic change thy sounding wire.

How lonely were the minstrel's latter days,

How of thy string with strains indignant rung;

To desert wilds he pour'd his ancient lays,

Or to a shepherd boy his legend sung:

The purple heath of ev'ning was his bed,

His shelter from the storm a peasant's shed!

The gale that round his urn its odour flings,

And waves the flow's that o'er it wildly wreathe,

Shall thrill along thy few remaining strings,

And with a mournful chord his requiem breathe.

The shepherd boy that paus'd his song to hear,

Shall chant it o'er his grave, and drop a tear.