Poem by Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 111. Song of the Battle Eve

Time -- the Ninth Century

To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
  	There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up, –
But there’s wine still in the cup,
  	And we’ll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
  	We’ll take another quaff, ere we go.

’Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
  	When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet’s weeping too!
  	With its tears we’ll chase away our own, boy, our own;
  	With its tears we’ll chase away our own.

But daylight’s stealing on; –
The last that o’er us shone
  	Saw our children around us play;
The next – ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
  	But – no matter – grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
  	No matter – grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
  	Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
  	Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
  	Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

1. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 75
2. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 27
3. From “The Odes of Anacreon”. Ode 16
4. Bright Be Thy Dreams
5. From “Irish Melodies”. 123. From This Hour the Pledge Is Given

Print

2308 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version