12 Irische Lieder , opus WoO. 154

We fairy elves in secret dells,
All day contrive our magic spells,
Till sable night o'ercast the sky,
And trough the airy regions fly,
By Cynthia's light so clear:
Around the earth ere dawn of day,
On high we win our easy way;
Sometimes the lawns to earth inviting,
On the velvet turf alighting;
So light, so light,
So light o'er pliant stalks we fleet,
The blade scarce bends beneath our feet,
But shakes as if for fear.

Refrain
So light, so light,
So light o'er pliant stalks we fleet,
The blade scarce bends beneath our feet,
But shakes as if for fear.

And if no bus'ness calls from home
Around the wheeling globe to roam;
We to some flow'ry meadow stray,
And sing and dance the night away,
Around our Fairy Queen.
Then we our mushroom board prepare,
The gather'd sweets of flow'rs our fare,
The dewy nectar round distilling,
All our hairbell goblets filling;
Good night, good night:
Good night we say, then sink to rest
Upon some lily's downy breast,
By mortal eyes unseen.

Refrain
Good night, good night:
Good night we say, then sink to rest
Upon some lily's downy breast,
By mortal eyes unseen.

O harp of Erin thou art now laid low,
For he the last of all his race is gone:
And now no more the minstrel's verse shall flow,
That sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone:
The hand is cold that with a poet's fire
Could sweep in magic change thy sounding wire.

How lonely were the minstrel's latter days,
How of thy string with strains indignant rung;
To desert wilds he pour'd his ancient lays,
Or to a shepherd boy his legend sung:
The purple heath of ev'ning was his bed,
His shelter from the storm a peasant's shed!

The gale that round his urn its odour flings,
And waves the flow's that o'er it wildly wreathe,
Shall thrill along thy few remaining strings,
And with a mournful chord his requiem breathe.
The shepherd boy that paus'd his song to hear,
Shall chant it o'er his grave, and drop a tear.

O Erin! To thy harp divine
I bid adieu:
Yet let me now its sounds resign
With homage due.
Thy gen'rous sons, that know not fear,
Their feelings, genius, fire:
O blest be all! But Erin dear,
Be blest thy lyre.

O where the heart that would not bound
With answering beat,
To hear thy Planxty's dancing sound,
And numbers sweet.
And where the heart that sinks not low,
And musing melts away,
To hear thy harp's deep lonely flow,
When mourns the lay.

No toil can e'er such sweets supply
No chymic power,
As brings me bee, with honied thigh,
From wild heath flower:
And Science, that could wake the strings
To chords of rapture high.
May envy, while she smiling sings
Thy minstrelsy.

The pulse of an Irishman ever beats quicker,
whan war is the story, or love is the theme;
and place him where bullets fly thicker and thicker,
you'll find him all cowardice scorning.
And tho' a ball should maim poor Darby,
light at the heart he rallies on:
"Fortune is cruel, but Norah, my jewel,
is kind, and with smiling, all sorrow beguiling,
shall bid from our cabin all care to be gone,
and how they will jig it, and tug at the spigot,
an Patrick's day in the mornin'."

O blest by the land in the wide western waters,
sweet Erin, lov'd Erin, the pride of my song;
still brave be the sons, and still fair be the daughters
thy meads and thy mountains adorning!
And tho'  the eastern sun seems tardy,
tho' the pure light of knowledge slow,
night and delusion, and darkling confusion
like mists from the river shall vanish for ever,
and true Irish hearts with warm loyalty glow;
and proud exaltation burst forth from the nation
on Patrick's day in the mornin'.

O who, my dear Dermot,
Has dar'd to deceive thee,
And what's the dishonour
This gold is to buy?
Back, back to thy tempter,
Or Norah shall leave thee,
To hide her in woods,
And in deserts to die.

O look at yon lark,
Where the sky shines so brightly,
Say why does it carol
Its echoing lay:
Is't singing so gaily
And mounting so lightly,
Because it finds gold
In the dawn of the day?

O Dermot, thy heart is
With agony swelling,
For once it was honest,
And honour its law.
An Irishman thou, and
Have bribes in thy dwelling!
Back, back, to thy tempter,
Go, Erin go Bragh!

Put round the bright wine,
for my bosom is gay,
the night may have sunshine
as well as the day.
Oh welcome the hours!
when dear visions arise
to melt my kind spirit,
and charm my fond eyes.
When wine to my head
can its wisdom impart,
and love has its promise
to make to my heart;
when dim in far shade
sink the spectres of care,
and I tread a bright world
with a footstep of air.

Yes, mirth is my goddess,
come round me, ye few,
who have wit for her worship,
I doat upon you:
delighted with life,
like a swallow on wing,
I catch ev'ry pleasure
the current may bring:
the feast and the frolic,
the masque and the ball,
dear scenes of enchantment!
I come at your call;
let me meet the bay beings
of beauty and song,
and let Erin's good humour
be found in the throng.

If life be a dream,
'tis a pleasant one sure,
and the dream of tonight
we at least may secure.
If life be a bubble,
tho' better I deem,
let us light up its colours
by gaiety's beam.
Away with cold vapours,
I pity the mind
that nothing but dullness
and darkness can find:
give me the kind spirit
that laughs on its way,
and turns thorns into roses,
and winters to May.

From Garyone, my happy home,
Full many a weary mile I've come,
To sound of fife and beat of drum,
And more shall see it never.
'Twas there I turn'd my wheel so gay,
Could laugh, and dance, and sing, and play,
And wear the circling hours away
In mirth or peace for ever.

But Harry came, a blithesome boy,
He told me I was all his joy,
That love was sweet, and ne'er could cloy,
And he would leave me never:
His coat was scarlet tipp'd with blue,
With gay cockade and feather too,
A comely lad he was to view;
And won my heart for ever.

My mother cried, dear Rosa, stay,
Ah! Do not from your parents stray;
My father sigh'd, and nought would say,
For he could chide me never:
Yet cruel, I farewell could take,
I left them for my sweetheart's sake,
And came, 'twas near my heart to break
From Garyone for ever.

Buit poverty is hard to bear,
And love is but a summer's wear,
And men deceive us when they swear
They'll love and leave us never:
Now sad I wander through the day,
No more I laugh, or dance, or play,
But mourn the hour I came away
From Garyone for ever.

Save me from the grave and wise,
For vainly would I tax my spirit,
Be the thing that I despise,
And rival all their stupid merit.
On! My careless laughing heart,
O dearest Fancy let my find thee,
Let me but from sorrow part,
And leave this moping world behind me.
Refrain
 Speak ye wiser than the wise,
 Breathe aloud your welcome measure,
 Youthful Fancy well can prize
 The words that counsel love and pleasure.

Is it merry look, or speech,
Or bounding step that thus displeases?
Go and graver movements teach
To yon light goss'mer on the breezes:
Go where breathes the opening spring,
And chide the flowers for gaily blowing,
Tell the linnet not to sing
In jocund May, when noon is glowing. 
(Refrain)

Hence with wisdom, dull and drear,
And welcome folly at a venture:
Cease my song, a sound I hear, 
The planxty comes, the dancers enter.
In yon throng, if I should see
Some gallant, giddy, gay adviser,
Who trough life might counsel me,
He indeed might make me wiser.
(Refrain)

O would I were but that sweet linnet!
That I had my apple-tree too!
Could sit all the sunny day in it,
With nothing but singing to do!
I'm weary with toiling and spinning;
And Dermot I never can see,
Nor sure am I Dermot of winning,
There's never good luck for poor me!

I tried with my sweetest behaviour
To tell our good priest my distress;
And ask'd him to speak in my favour,
When Dermot came next to confess.
But he said I was but a beginner,
And from love and temptation must flee!
So if love will but make me a sinner,
There's never good luck for poor me!

Ye Saints, with the Virgin! Believe me,
I join with the priest in your praise!
Contrive but my Dermot to give me,
And I'll love you the length of my days.
In vain would they bid me be wiser,
And never my Dermot to see,
Bad luck to advice and adviser!
Good luck! To dear Dermot and me!

The hero may perish his country to save,
  And he lives in the records of fame;
The sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave --
  Ever honour'd and blest be his name!
But virtue, that silently toils and expires,
  No wreath for the brow to adorn,
That asks but a smile -- but a fond sigh requires --
  O woman! that virtue is thine!

The piper who sat on his low mossy seat,
And piped to the youngsters so shrill and so sweet;
The far distant hum of the children at play,
And the maiden's soft carol at the close of the day.

Ah! This was the music delighted my ear,
And to think of it now is so sad and so dear!
Ah! To listen at ease by my own cottage door,
To the sound of my own native village once more!

At night as I keep on the wearisome watch,
The sound of the west wind I greedily catch,
And the shores of dear Ireland then  rise to my sight,
And my own native valley, that land of delight.

Divided so far by a wide stormy main,
Shall I ever return to our valley again?
Ah! To listen at ease by my own cottage door,
To the sound of my own native village once more!

He promised me at parting,
To meet me at springtime here;
Yet see yon roses blooming,
The blossoms how they disappear.
Return my dearest Dermot!
Or sure the spring will soon be o'er;
Fair long have blown the breezes,
Oh! When shall I see thee more.

He went to look for treasures,
They're found they say in London town;
And 'tis for me ha means them,
Both golden store and silken gown.
I want but thee, my Dermot!
Nor silken gown, nor golden store;
Fair long have blown the breezes,
Oh! When shall I see thee more.

Why go to that great city,
Oh why so far from Norah roam,
Return to those that love thee,
There's little love so far from home.
Thou art not faithless, Dermot,
Yet sure the spring is almost o'er,
Fair long have blown the breezes,
Oh! When shall I see thee more.