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 fire-sides 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!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Related quotes
Jubilee Song
Our grateful carts with joy o’erflow,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
We hail the Despot’s overthrow,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
No more he’ll raise the gory lash,
And sink it deep in human flesh,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra.
We raise the song in Freedom’s name,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
Her glorious triumph we proclaim,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
Beneath her feet lie Slavery’s chains,
Their power to curse no more remains,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra.
With joy we’ll make the air resound,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
That all may hear the gladsome sound,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
We glory at Oppression’s fall,
The Slave has burst his deadly thrall,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra.
In mirthful glee we’ll dance and sing,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
With shouts we’ll make the welkin ring,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
Shout! shout aloud! the bondsman’s free
This, this is Freedom’s jubilee
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra, Hurra,
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Landsoldatens Hjemkomst
Det er som en Festdag hver evige Dag,
Vor Landsoldat kommer tilbage.
Fra Huus og til Huus hænge Krandse og Flag,
Folk juble fra Gader og Tage,
Hvert Laug har sin Fane, Musiken er med,
Og Hurra og Jubel hvert evige Sted.
„Nu komme de! hør fra Voldene Skud!
Saa sunde, saa prægtige see de ud!"
Hurra! Hurra! I herlige, brave Soldater!
De komme med Blomster paa Hat og Gevær,
Et vandrende Foraar de ligne;
Gaae ind imellem dem, tal med hver,
Det er de Mænd, vi velsigne.
De stred og døied og udholdt som Faa,
Og vide selv ikke, hvor store de staae.
Den fineste Frøkens Rosenmund
Kunde kysse Soldaten i denne Stund.
Hurra! Hurra! I herlige, brave Soldater!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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The New-England Boy's Song About Thanksgiving Day
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house we go;
The horse knows the way,
To carry the sleigh,
Through the white and drifted snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To grandfather's house away!
We would not stop
For doll or top,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes,
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.
Over the river, and through the wood,
With a clear blue winter sky,
The dogs do bark,
And children hark,
As we go jingling by.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To have a first-rate play-
Hear the bells ring
Ting a ling ding,
Hurra for Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood-
No matter for winds that blow;
Or if we get
The sleigh upset,
Into a bank of snow.
Over the river, and through the wood,
To see little John and Ann;
We will kiss them all,
And play snow-ball,
And stay as long as we can.
Over the river, and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple grey!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting hound,
For 't is Thanksgiving Day!
Over the river, and through the wood,
And straight through the barn-yard gate;
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Old Jowler hears our bells;
He shakes his pow,
With a loud bow wow,
And thus the news he tells.
Over the river, and through the wood-
When grandmother sees us come,
She will say, Oh dear,
The children are here,
Bring a pie for every one.
Over the river, and through the wood-
Now grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurra for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurra for the pumpkin pie!
poem by Lydia Maria Francis Child
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Don't cry ""Hurra!"" till you are over the ditch.
Erin, Oh Erin
Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,
And burn'd through long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright through the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung,
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.
Erin, oh Erin, though long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping through winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that lived through it shall blossom at last.
poem by Thomas Moore
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Erin! The Tear and the Smile in Thine Eyes
Erin! the tear and the smile in thine eyes
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies,
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight
One arch of peace!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Don't cry hurra! till your are over the hedge (till you are out of the wood).
The Exile Of Erin
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sign'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle fo the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion.
He sang the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh!
'Sad is my fate!'- said the heart-broken stranger -
'The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger:
A home and a country remain not to me!
Never again, in my green, sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours;
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin Go Bragh!
'Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But, alas! in a far - foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me!-
They died to defend me!- or live to deplore!
'Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure!
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall without measure;
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
'Yet - all its fond recollections suppressing -
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw:
Erin!- an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers!- Erin go bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sind aloud with devotion,-
ERIN MAVOURNEEN! ERIN GO BRAGH!'
poem by Thomas Campbell
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The Pallet Of Your Burning Sun
The horses this time sleep standing up, Erin;
And my scars have switched sides once again like girls
Skipping rope,
Sending fibrillose and vibrant shadows once again over
The estuaries of their deep and rich
Graveyards: The sky above them is first blue and then purple,
The same way I saw you out taming your yards:
I saw you jogging like an angel floating like a fish beside my
Car, Erin; and it doesn’t matter if you do not love me,
Erin: I am not a boy to be employed by your love:
I am a vagrant and truant of love. While I have tasted the lips of
One of my muses, that’s all that she allowed me while
She returned from my swingset to her husband, and now where
Do you think I am standing, Erin, but out in the burning
Opulence of your son:
I am down in your opulent grotto with my toy gun, Erin:
And I don’t want to go empty handed on Halloween or Valentines
And you are the only one, E- E-
You are the only one and the sky is first blue and then purple
Underneath the pallet of your burning sun.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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En lille Flugt til Rom den 8 Marts 1835
1
Fra Nord, hvor Taagen skygger,
Hvor Vinterkulden trykker,
Bort til Italia!
Vi Tydskland let kan glemme,
Saa smukt har vi det Hjemme,
Og flyve dog derfra!
Hallo, halla, hallo, halla!
Ned til Italia!
2
De høie Alper vige,
Vi ned paa Sletten stige
Til Sang og Blomster-Duft.
Blandt Myrter Hjorden græsser,
See Pinier og Cypresser! -
Vi aande Sydens Luft!
Hallo, hallo, hallo! hallo!
Den Luft gjør Hjertet fro!
3
Her Skjønheds Døttre bygge!
Vi tænke paa vor Lykke,
Vi dvæle og vi fly.
Bag Bjergene det vinker!
Sankt Peters Kubbel blinker,
Vi er i Pavens By.
Hallo, halla, hallo, halla!
Nu Passaporti da!
4
Vi ned ad Corso vandre,
Og sikkert vi de Andre
I Caffe greco see!
Man Velkomst drikke skal jo,
Vi raabe mezzo caldo!
Vi kysses og vi lee!
Hallo, halle, hallo, halle!
Vi er i vor Caffé!
5
Os spørger hver en Stemme,
„Hvorledes staaer det hjemme?"
„Det staaer, som før det stod!
Det regner og er sølet,
Man gaaer og er forkjølet,
For Vintren er saa god!"
Hallo, hallo, hallo, hallo!
Ja god, det kan I tro!
6
Om Roma vil vi tale,
See Vaticanets Sale,
Ja dertil staaer vor Hu.
Jeg Colossæum gjæster,
Og Keiserborgens Rester,
Og saa lidt meer endnu!
Hallo, halle, hallo, halle!
Vi atter Roma see!
7
Men vi maae lidt os rappe!
Op ad den spanske Trappe,
Først hen til Chiavica!
De der sig Alle samle,
Der træffe vi den Gamle,
ham bringes et Hurra!
Hallo, halla, hallo, halla!
Ham bringes et Hurra!
8
Hans Fødselsdag de hædre,
Og ingen Dag er bedre
End den, han først saae Rom!
Vi see hans milde Øie
Vi staae ved Romas Høie,
Til Skaalen just vi kom.
Hallo, halla, hallo, halla!
For Thorvaldsen Hurra!
poem by Hans Christian Andersen
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Sublime Was the Warning
Sublime was the warning that liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west --
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain.
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights;
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and the Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause! -- oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave,
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!
poem by Thomas Moore
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Though the Last Glimpse of Erin With Sorrow I See
Though the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Hartley Calamity
The Hartley men are noble, and
Ye'll hear a tale of woe;
I'll tell the doom of the Hartley men -
The year of sixty two.
'Twas on the Thursday morning, on
The first month of the year,
When there befell the thing that well
May rend the heart to hear.
Ere chanticleer with music rare
Awakes the old homestead,
The Hartley men are up and off
To earn their daily bread.
On, on they toil; with heat they broil,
And streams of sweat still glue
The stour unto their skins, till they
Are black as the coal they hew.
Now to and fro the putters go,
The waggons to and fro,
And clang on clang the wheel and hoof
Ring in the mine below.
The din and strife of human life.
Awake in 'wall' and 'board',
When, lo! a shock is felt which makes
Each human heart-beat heard.
Each bosom thuds, as each his duds
He snatches and away,
And to the distant shaft he flees
With all the speed he may.
Each, all, they flee -- by two -- by three
They seek the shaft, to seek
An answer in each other's face,
To what they may not speak.
"Are we entombed?" they seem to ask,
For the shaft is closed, and no
Escape have they to God's bright day
From out the night below.
So stand in pain the Hartley men,
And o'er them speedily comes
The memory of home and all
That links us to our homes.
Despair at length renews their strength,
And they the shaft must clear,
And soon the sound of mall and pick,
Half drowns the voice of fear.
And hark! to the blow of the mal below
Do the sounds above reply?
Hurra, hurra, for the Hartley men,
For now their rescue's nigh.
Their rescue nigh? The sound of joy
And hope have ceased, and ere
A breath is drawn a rumble heard
Re-drives them to despair.
Together now behold them bow;
Their burden'd souls unload
In cries that never rise in vain
Unto the living God.
Whilst yet they kneel, again they fell
Their strength renewed -- again
The swing and the ring of the mall attests
The might of the Hartley men.
And hark! to the blow of the mall below,
Do sounds above reply?
Hurra, hurra, for the Hartley men,
For now their rescue's nigh.
But lo! yon light, erewhile so bright
No longer lights the scene;
A cloud of mist yon light has kiss'd
And shorn it of its sheen.
A cloud of mist yon light has kiss'd,
See! how long it steels,
Till one by one the lights are smote,
And deep the doom prevails.
"Oh, father, till the shaft is rid,
Close, close besides me keep;
My eyelids are together glued,
And I -- and I -- must sleep".
Sleep, darling, sleep, and I will keep
Close by -- heigh-ho!" To keep
Himself awake the father strives --
But he -- he too -- must sleep."
"O, brother, till the shaft is rid,
Close, close besides me keep;
My eyelids are together glued,
And I -- and I -- must sleep."
Sleep, brother, sleep and I will keep
Close by -- heigh-ho! To keep
Half awake the brother strives --
But he -- he too must sleep.
"O mother, dear! wert, wert thou near
Whilst sleep!" And the orphan slept;
And all night long by the black pit heap
The mother a dumb watch kept
And fathers, and mothers, and sisters, and brothers,
The lover and the new-made bride --
A vigil kept for those who slept,
From eve to morning tide.
But they slept -- still -- in silence dread,
Two hundred old and young,
To awake when heaven and earth have sped
And the last dread trumpet rung.
poem by Joseph Skipsey
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Chase The Clouds Away
On the blues of yesterdays
Time is being wished away
I close my eyes and think of you
Suddenly your light comes through
Time doesnt matter anymore
Livins like a sweet love song
As promising? the things I do
Really dont seem to lead to you
Chorus:
Away
Chase the clouds away
Chase the clouds away
Chase the clouds away
If you stumble on the way
Ill be there to comfort you
To pick you up when you are down
Sever? any clouds away
You believe Im right for you
You know that my aim is true
No matter what the world will do
The two of us will see it through
Chorus
Solo
Chorus
song performed by by Incognito
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fool For Love
Have you heard the sound of disappointment
It tears at you
Why didnt I realise that I could be conned by you
Taken for a fool
But as the light go down
Theres no one left around
What will you do
Now youve hurt me
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
Hear what Im saying its not what Im thinking
My head is like a chain of thoughts
Twisted in vain
When will you ever learn
That its always the hard way
Now that were through
Ive nothing left to prove
To convince you
To convince you
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
You never cared what happened
Now youre the one whos laughing
Fool for love
Those rumours were true I was your fool
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
song performed by by Texas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fool For Love
Have you heard the sound of disappointment
It tears at you
Why didnt I realise that I could be conned by you
Taken for a fool
But as the light go down
Theres no one left around
What will you do
Now youve hurt me
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
Hear what Im saying its not what Im thinking
My head is like a chain of thoughts
Twisted in vain
When will you ever learn
That its always the hard way
Now that were through
Ive nothing left to prove
To convince you
To convince you
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
You never cared what happened
Now youre the one whos laughing
Fool for love
Those rumours were true I was your fool
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
I wont let you stay
No matter what you say to me now
song performed by by Texas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wine-Cup is Circling
The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up, with a sigh to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.
When, hark, that shout
From the vale without --
"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.
The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers --
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
Breaking forth from their place of slumber!
Spear to buckler rang,
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst o'er them floated wide;
While remembering the yoke
Which their fathers broke,
"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
And the shout, that last
O'er the dying pass'd,
Was "victory! victory!" -- the Finian's cry.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni
The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead; --
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women,
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, through a million of foemen,
Who dared but to wrong thee in thought!
While now -- oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame!
And through ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane;
They come to divide, to dishonour,
And tyrants they long will remain.
But onward! --- the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Prince's Day
Though dark are our sorrows, today we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.
But just when the chain,
Has ceased to pain,
And hope has enwreathed it round with flowers,
There comes a new link,
Our spirits to sink --
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.
Contempt on the minion who calls you disloyal!
Though fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen --
Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When roused by the foe, on her Prince's Day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts which have suffer'd too much to forget;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubileee shine out yet.
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;
Each fragment will cast
A light to the last --
And thus, Erin, my country, though broken thou art,
There's lustre wiithin thee, that ne'er will decay;
A spirit which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.
poem by Thomas Moore
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An ever-relished chase
It has been a long chase
For something or the other
Over these years
As a kid it was a chase
For toys and play things
As a student it was a chase
For marks and ranks
As a youth it was a chase
After career and growth
And later it was chase
For getting the right life partner
The chase continued
For off-springs’ upbring
It was later to chase
For helping children settle
Ageing made me chase
For cure from illnesses
And other physical malfunctions
Yes,
It was a long chase for
Something or the others all these days
One understanding dawned in me
That
You will not get that
Which you have not chased
And
You will not get every thing
Which you have chased
Even if you get the object of your chase
It is not going to be in that form
In which it was when you started the chase
Unfruitful chase proves frustrating
Fruitful chase exciting
Wisdom will tell you that
The pleasure is more with the act of chase
Than getting hold of the object of chase
Holding of the object of chase
And sustaining its charm
Are essential after the end of chase
Very likely, chase for objects of
Worldly significance
Takes away your energy
And a lot of time elapses
Before you get in possession
Of your chase-objects
The duration at times is so large
That you wonder at the end of the chase
As to what for this object has been chased
The one chase which
Has the least probability
Of ending and
You hardly get hold of the
Object of chase
Is the
Chase for self-actualization
Or self-realization
This is the chase after your spirit
That kept you going all these days
And that will keep you going
Till that time when you away
Spiritual scholars assure
That this chase is really exciting
And remains so for any long
Whether or not
You come across what you are chasing
Develop a taste for such a chase
As this chase
Never makes you tired
But helps you remain balanced, cool
And unmindful of happenings
Around you
It is indeed an ever-relished chase
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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