Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

                    HOW oft has the Benshee cried,

                    How oft has death untied

                    Bright links that Glory wove,

                    Sweet bonds entwined by Love.

          Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;

          Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;

                    Long may the fair and brave,

                    Sigh o’er the hero’s grave.

                    We’re fallen upon gloomy days!

                    Star after star decays.

                    Every bright name, that shed

                    Light o’er the land, is fled.

          Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth

          Lost joy, or hope that ne’er returneth:

                    But brightly flows the tear,

                    Wept o’er a hero’s bier.

                    Quench’d are our beacon lights —

                    Thou, of the Hundred Fights!

                    Thou, on whose burning tongue

                    Truth, peace, and freedom hung!

          Both mute, — but long as valour shineth,

          Or mercy’s soul at war repineth,

                    So long shall Erin’s pride

                    Tell how they lived and died.