The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill With biography, illustrations, and music |
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THE DIRGE OF CAROLAN. |
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 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
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THE DIRGE OF CAROLAN.
“Ye maids of green Erin, why sigh ye so sad?
The summer is smiling, all nature is glad.”
The summer may smile, and the shamrock may bloom,
But the pride of green Erin lies cold in the tomb;
And his merits demand all the tears that we shed,
Though they ne'er can awaken the slumbering dead:
Yet still they shall flow—for dear Carolan we mourn,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.
The summer is smiling, all nature is glad.”
The summer may smile, and the shamrock may bloom,
But the pride of green Erin lies cold in the tomb;
And his merits demand all the tears that we shed,
Though they ne'er can awaken the slumbering dead:
Yet still they shall flow—for dear Carolan we mourn,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.
Ye bards of our isle, join our grief with your songs,
For the deepest regret to our memory belongs;
In our cabins and fields, on our mountains and plains,
How oft have we sung to his heart-melting strains.
Ah! these strains shall survive, long as time they shall last,
Yet they now but remind us of joys that are past:
And our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.
For the deepest regret to our memory belongs;
In our cabins and fields, on our mountains and plains,
How oft have we sung to his heart-melting strains.
Ah! these strains shall survive, long as time they shall last,
Yet they now but remind us of joys that are past:
And our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in his urn.
Yes, thou pride of green Erin, thy honours thou'lt have,
Seven days, seven nights, we shall weep round thy grave;
And thy harp, that so oft to our ditties has rung,
To the lorn-sighing breeze o'er thy grave shall be hung;
And the song shall ascend, thy bright worth to proclaim,
That the shade may rejoice in the voice of thy fame:
But our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in thine urn.
Seven days, seven nights, we shall weep round thy grave;
And thy harp, that so oft to our ditties has rung,
To the lorn-sighing breeze o'er thy grave shall be hung;
And the song shall ascend, thy bright worth to proclaim,
That the shade may rejoice in the voice of thy fame:
But our days, crowned with pleasure, can never return,
For the soul of sweet music now sleeps in thine urn.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |