Thomas Moore
The Wandering Bard
What life like that of the bard can be The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o’er him sings, And, like that lark a music brings, Within him, where’er
Whene'er I See Those Smiling Eyes
Whene’er I see those smiling eyes, So full of hope, and joy, and light, As if no cloud could ever rise, To dim a heaven so purely bright I sigh to think how soon
My Gentle Harp
My gentle Harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; In tears our last farewell was taken, And now in tears we meet again. No light of joy hath o’er thee
Tis the Last Rose of Summer
Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone: No flower of her kindred, No rose-bud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh
Oh! Think Not My Spirits Are Always As Light
Oh! think not my spirits are always as light, And as free from a pang as they seem to you now, Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night Will return with to-morrow to
I've a Secret to Tell Thee
I’ve a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I’ll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
In the Morning of Life
In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown, And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin, When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own, And the light that surrounds
Fill the Bumper Fair
Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O’er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit’s electric flame Ne’er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses.
If Thou'lt Be Mine
If thou’lt be mine, the treasures of air, Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet; Whatever in Fancy’s eye looks fair, Or in Hope’s sweet music sounds most sweet, Shall be ours
Lay His Sword By His Side
Lay his sword by his side it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell, Its point was still
The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni
The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o’er me, That sadden’d the joy of my mind. I look’d for the lamp which, she
Drink of This Cup
Drink of this cup; you’ll find there’s a spell in Its every drop ‘gainst the ills of mortality; Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen; Her cup was a fiction, but this is
Oh, the Sight Entrancing
Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning’s beam is glancing O’er files array’d With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing! When hearts are all high beating And the trumpet’s voice repeating
St. Senanus and the Lady
St. Senanus “On! haste, and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see; And I have sworn this sainted sod
Desmond's Song
By the Feal’s wave benighted, No star in the skies, To thy door by Love lighted, I first saw those eyes. Some voice whisper’d o’er me, As the threshold I cross’d, There was ruin