The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him. His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.

Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

But there’s nothing half so sweet in life As love’s young dream.

’Tis the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms, Like fairy gifts fading away, Thou would’st still be ador’d as this moment thou art, Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled.

And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonor’d his relics are laid.

Go where glory waits thee! But while fame elates thee, Oh, still remember me!

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.