Silence is in our festal halls,
Sweet Son of Song! Thy day is o'er
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice is heard no more
All silent as th'Aeolian shell
Sleeps at close of some bright day,
When the sweet breezes waked its swell
At sunny morn, hath died away.

Yes, Erin shine alone the fame,
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down,
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee."