Song Of The Battle Eve.

A poem by Thomas Moore

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!