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.