Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

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

Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir’s lonely daughter

Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.

When shall the swan, her death-note singing,

Sleep, with wings in darkness furled?

When will heaven its sweet bell ringing,

Call my spirit from this stormy world?

Sadly, O 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?