Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy waters Break not ye breezes, your chains of repose While murmuring mournfully LirÂŽs lonely daughter Tells to the night star her tale of woes
When shall the swan, her death note ringing Sleep with the wings in darkness furled? When will heavÂŽn, its sweet bell ringing Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping Fate bids me languish long ages away Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping Still doth the pure light its dawning delay
When will the day star mildly springing Warm our isle with peace and love? When will heavÂŽn, its sweet bell ringing Call my spirit to the fields above? Call my spirit to the fields above?
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