12 Irish Songs, WoO 154: No. 2, Oh Harp of Erin
Yehudi Menuhin, Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Heinrich Schiff, Hartmut Höll
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Lyrics
O harp of Erin, thou art now laid low
For he, the last of all his race, is gone
And now above all the mistress verse shall flow
That, sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone
The hand is cold that wither'd poets' high
Poems weep in magic change thy sounding lyre
The gale that round his hearn its o'er-flings
And waves the flowers that o'er it wildly wreath
Shall freedom on thy few remaining strings
And with a mournful chord his requiem breathe
The shepherd boy that paused his song to hear
Shall chant it o'er his grave and drop a tear