Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy waters
Break not ye breezes, your chains of repose
While murmuring mournfully Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night star her tale of woes
When shall the swan, her death note ringing
Sleep with the wings in darkness furled?
When will heav'n, its sweet bell ringing
Call my spirit from this stormy world?
Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter wave weeping
Fate bids me languish long ages away
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay
When will the day star mildly springing
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heav'n, its sweet bell ringing
Call my spirit to the fields above?
Call my spirit to the fields above?
