Thomas Campbell

Another's sword has laid him low, Another's and another's; And every hand that dealt the blow— Ah me! it was a brother's!

The hunter and the deer a shade.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness.

Oh leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save.

There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field and his feet to the foe, And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal: 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

To is to conquer our fate.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.