Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 111. Song of the Battle Eve

Time -- the Ninth Century

To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
  	There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up, –
But there’s wine still in the cup,
  	And we’ll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
  	We’ll take another quaff, ere we go.

’Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
  	When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet’s weeping too!
  	With its tears we’ll chase away our own, boy, our own;
  	With its tears we’ll chase away our own.

But daylight’s stealing on; –
The last that o’er us shone
  	Saw our children around us play;
The next – ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
  	But – no matter – grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
  	No matter – grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
  	Ignobly by their firesides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
  	Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
  	Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!