Tune not thy harp to joy. No merry sound
Should wake its captive chords to melody,
Each gladsome note is to my soul a wound,
For Erin wears the chains of slavery.
II.
And if thy fingers wake, perhaps, a strain
Of joy, in passing heedless o'er the chords.
Let not thy voice re-echo it again—
Let not its brightness pass into thy words.
No; rather sing of death and of the grave,
Then will thy lay claim more of sympathy;
These are the themes that best befit the slave,
For death at least will make the bondsman free.
III.
Then sing not now the melting lay of love,
Its notes should not be uttered by a slave;
But if thou wouldst thy heart's devotion prove,
Recover first the freedom Heaven gave;
Then when that first, best gift thou shalt regain,
A willing ear I'll lend thy minstrelsy;
But sing not to me love's light, joyous strain
Till thou canst say—"My native land is free."
O'NIAL'S VOW.
"Jusque la nous leur ferons guerre à mort."—Donald O'Nial, King of Ulster, to Pope John.
How many a year,
In fleet career,
Have circled o'er its blackened strand,
Since first that vow,
Forgotten now,
Was plighted to our native land?
