But nothing can cloud its native ray; Each fragment will cast A light to the last,— And thus, Erin, my country, tho' broken thou art, There's a lustre within 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. WEEP ON, WEEP ON. WEEP on, weep on, your hour is past; The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain; Weep on-perhaps in after days, They'll learn to love your name; When many a deed may wake in praise That long hath slept in blame. And when they tread the ruin'd Isle, Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, They'll wond'ring ask, how hands so vile Could conquer hearts so brave? |