Silent, Oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
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 furl'd?
When shall heav'n
its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, Oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our Isle with peace and love?
When shall heav'n, its sweet
Call my spirit to the fields above?