The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

Then sails are back'd, we nearer come,
Kind words are said of friends and home;
And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.

130

HIP, HIP, HURRAH!

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here's “the friends of our youth—tho' of some we're bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!”
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Once more fill a bumper—ne'er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no pow'r.

131

May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run
Ev'n faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;
Here's the poet who sings—here's the warrior who fights—
Here's the statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

Come, once more, a bumper!—then drink as you please,
Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these?
Here's our next joyous meeting—and oh when we meet,
May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!

132

HUSH, HUSH!

“Hush, hush!”—how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, “Hush, hush!”

“Hark, hark, 'tis he!”
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silv'ry feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, “Hush, hush!”

133

THE PARTING BEFORE THE BATTLE.

HE.
On to the field, our doom is seal'd,
To conquer or be slaves:
This sun shall see our nation free,
Or set upon our graves.

SHE.
Farewell, oh farewell, my love,
May Heaven thy guardian be,
And send bright angels from above
To bring thee back to me.

HE.
On to the field, the battle-field,
Where freedom's standard waves,
This sun shall see our tyrant yield,
Or shine upon our graves.

134

THE WATCHMAN.

A TRIO.

WATCHMAN.
Past twelve o'clock—past twelve.

Good night, good night, my dearest—
How fast the moments fly!
'Tis time to part, thou hearest
That hateful watchman's cry.

WATCHMAN.
Past one o'clock—past one.

Yet stay a moment longer—
Alas! why is it so,
The wish to stay grows stronger,
The more 'tis time to go?

WATCHMAN.
Past two o'clock—past two.

Now wrap thy cloak about thee—
The hours must sure go wrong,

135

For when they're past without thee,
They're, oh, ten times as long.

WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock—past three.

Again that dreadful warning!
Had ever time such flight?
And see the sky, 'tis morning—
So now, indeed, good night.

WATCHMAN.
Past three o'clock—past three.

Good night, good night.

136

SAY, WHAT SHALL WE DANCE?

Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we bound along the moonlight plain,
To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?
Say, what shall we dance?
Shall we, like those who rove
Through bright Grenada's grove,
To the light Bolero's measures move?
Or choose the Guaracia's languishing lay,
And thus to its sound die away?

Strike the gay chords,
Let us hear each strain from ev'ry shore
That music haunts, or young feet wander o'er.
Hark! 'tis the light march, to whose measured time,
The Polish lady, by her lover led,
Delights through gay saloons with step untired to tread,

137

Or sweeter still, through moonlight walks
Whose shadows serve to hide
The blush that's raised by him who talks
Of love the while by her side,
Then comes the smooth waltz, to whose floating sound
Like dreams we go gliding around,
Say, which shall we dance? which shall we dance?

138

THE EVENING GUN.

Remember'st thou that setting sun,
The last I saw with thee,
When loud we heard the evening gun
Peal o'er the twilight sea?
Boom!—the sounds appear'd to sweep
Far o'er the verge of day,
Till, into realms beyond the deep,
They seem'd to die away.

Oft, when the toils of day are done,
In pensive dreams of thee,
I sit to hear that evening gun,
Peal o'er the stormy sea.
Boom!—and while, o'er billows curl'd,
The distant sounds decay,
I weep and wish, from this rough world
Like them to die away.