OH! Norah, when wandering afar from the shade Of the woods, where in childhood so happy we stray'd, From eyes that are strangers, and breasts that are cold, My heart often turns to the pleasures of old.
Oh! Norah, my sister, how lovely and bright The green vales of Connaught appear to my sight; How starts the wild tear, when in thought I survey The cabin so neat, with its children at play!
What though I am doom'd with my sorrows to roam From Erin, my land, and the glen of my home, From the spot where the bones of my fathers repose, And the stream, where the brier and the wild lily grows;
Yet often, when midnight hangs dreary around, And the breeze flaps the tent with a desolate sound, On the pallet I dream of our dear shieling-fire, And the faces that circle my mother and sire!
I see the sweet group, and I hear their lips pray Success to the wanderer, who roams far away. My dear sister, Norah, again shall it be
My fate the green pastures of Connaught to see!
Again to stray forth with the flocks to the field, From grief the white hairs of my parents to shield; And be laid, my dear Norah, when being shall cease, With my sires who have gone to the mansions of peace!
BENEATH the morn, on yonder plain, In ardour high, the valiant stood; At eve, the cold moon o'er the slain Besilver'd ghastly scenes of blood: Below that mound they now are sleeping, Wakeful once, and warmly brave; Alas! the midnight dews are weeping On the Soldier's Grave.
Of them to hear the patriot listens ; Pensive Love a sigh bequeathes; Virtue's tear, while praising, glistens,
Fame presents her laurell'd wreaths;
And fond Affection, nobly warming,
Will laud the hearts which strove to save; And Memory wave her wand of charming O'er the Soldier's Grave.
The trump of Fame they heard-obey'd― Afar at sea, the waning shore
In sad and sombre blue decay'd,
And ne'er by them was welcomed more! But Gratitude will grieve for Glory,
And give the tear which once they gave; And Wisdom tell her mournful story O'er the Soldier's Grave.
We live secure, and sleep at ease; To bless our dwelling peace awaits
They left their homes, and plough'd the seas, To keep the battle from our gates :- The forest moans-a voice of wailing-
Above their heads white cannachs wave; The bittern shrieks at eve, when sailing O'er the Soldier's Grave.
Oft, when the faggot sheds its light, As winter mantles white the plain, The sire will spend the noon of night To tell of those in battle slain. His children will the warmth inherit; And pity will a tribute crave, To soothe the rest, and calm the spirit Of the Soldier's Grave.
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