Adieu my lov'd harp, for no more shall the vale,
Re-echo thy notes as they float on the gale;
No more melting pity shall sigh o'er thy String;
Or love to thy tremblings so tenderly sing.

When battle's fell strife launch'd its thunders afar,
And valour's dark brow wore the honours of war;
'Twas thou breath'd the fame of the hero around,
And young emulation was wak'd by the sound.

Ye daughters of Erin soon comes the sad day,
When over the turf where I sleep ye shall say:
"Oh! Still is the song we repaid with a tear,
And silent the string that delighted the ear."