[C]The harp that once through[F] Tara's halls
The[C] soul of [G]music[C] shed,
Now[Am] hangs as mute on[F] Tara's
As if that soul were[G] fled
So[C] sleeps the pride of[F] former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er;
hearts that once beat[F] high for praise,
Now[C] feel that[G] pulse no[C] more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
The harp of Tara swells
The chord, alone, that breaks at night,
of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
show that still she lives.