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|Thomas Moore wrote these words to an old Irish air Moll Roone.
James Flannery in Dear Harp of My Country writes, "Moore had a genius for friendship. Byron, who described him as the most pleasing individual he had ever met, begged for his companionship when in exile... In turn, Moore reveled in the company of others as much as they in his, as evident in this touching threnody on the sadness of separation from those he loves."*
For a complete list of tunes by Thomas Moore at this site see the Contemplator's Short Biography of Thomas Moore.
Farewell, but whenever you welcome the hour|
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain,
Of the few that had brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw,
It's enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.
And still on that evening when pleasure fills up,
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where 'ere my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night.
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming, all o'er with your smiles.
Too, blest if it tells me that 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmer'd, "I wish he were here!"
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy,
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd,
Like the vase in which roses have once been distill'd.
You may break, you may ruin the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang 'round it still.
Songs of Ireland
J. L. Hatton and J. L. Molloy and
*Dear Harp of My Country
See Bibliography for full information.