Tom Moore
Moore found the ballads of Green Isle,
Were oft obscured beneath the soil
As miner digging in a mine
Finds rubbish 'mong the gold so fine.
So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
And enshrined jewels in casket,
Where all may view each charming gem
In Ireland’s grand old diadem.
In eastern lands his fame prevails
In wondrous Oriental tales ;
So full of gems his Lala Rookh
Hindoos and Bramins read his book,
And dark eyed Persian girls admire
The beauties of his magic lyre
Glowing like pearls of great price
Those distant gleams of Paradise.
He sang of Bryan Borohm’s glory,
Renowned in ancient Irish story,
And shows the wide expanded walls
Which once encircled Tara’s Halls
When joyous harp did there resound
And Ireland’s greatest king was crowned
All wars and tumults then did cease,
Ireland did prosper great in peace.
He sung of meeting of the waters,
And of Ireland’s charming daughters ;
Great minstrel from his harp both flows
Ireland’s triumphs and her woes ;
Canada doth his fame prolong,
While she doth sing his great boat song.
And his own countrymen adore
The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.
