Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

SILENT, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,

      Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir’s lonely daughter

      Tell’s to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

      Sleep, with wings in darkness furl’d?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

      Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,

      Fate bids me languish long ages away;

Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,

      Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,

      Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,

      Call my spirit to the fields above?