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.