Robert Dwyer Joyce

The Banks of Anner

IN purple robes old Sliavnamon
  Towers monarch of the mountains,
The first to catch the smiles of dawn,
  With all his woods and fountains;—
His streams dance down by tower and town,
  But none since Time began her
Met mortal sight so pure and bright
  As winding, wandering Anner.

In hillside’s gleam or woodland’s gloom,
  O’er fairy height and hollow,	
Upon her banks gay flowerets bloom,
  Where’er her course I follow.
And halls of pride tower o’er her tide,
  And gleaming bridges span her,
As, laughing gay, she winds away,
  The gentle, murmuring Anner.

There gallant men, for freedom born,
  With friendly grasp will meet you;
There lovely maids, as bright as morn,
  With sunny smiles will greet you;
And there they strove to raise above
  The Red, Green Ireland’s banner,—
There yet its fold they ’ll see unrolled
  Upon the banks of Anner.

’T is there we ’ll stand, with bosoms proud,
  True soldiers of our sireland,
When freedom’s wind blows strong and loud,
  And floats the flag of Ireland.
Let tyrants quake, and doubly shake
  Each traitor and trepanner,
When once we raise our camp-fire’s blaze
  Upon the banks of Anner.

O God! be with the good old days,
  The days so light and airy,
When to blithe friends, I sang my lays
  In gallant, gay Tipperary;
When fair maids’ sighs and witching eyes
  Made my young heart the planner
Of castles rare, built in the air,
  Upon the banks of Anner!

The morning sun may fail to show
  His light the earth illuming;
Old Sliavnamon to blush and glow
  In autumn’s purple blooming;
And shamrocks green no more be seen,
  And breezes cease to fan her,
Ere I forget the friends I met
  Upon the banks of Anner!