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 stoic of the woods-a man without a tear.

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, Th…

Oh leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!