The Song of Fionnuala

Thomas Moore


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 bells 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 in its dawning delay.

When will that day-star, mildly springing,

Warm our isle with peace and love?

When will heaven, its sweet bells ringing,

Call my spirit to the fields above?


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