Thomas Moore (28 May 1779 – 25 February 1852 / Dublin)

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropp'd his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venom'd darts,
Where mortal eye may shun you;
Lie hid -- the stain of manly hearts,
That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain --
As Time too well hath taught her --
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,
Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Even now, beside that river --
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
And stored is still his quiver.
"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"
She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
The Demon answer, "Never!"