Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

Oh! once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness; But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness.

A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry!'

A stoic of the woods-a man without a tear.