Tim Moore

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Tim Moore

Moore found the ballads of Green Isle

Were oft obscured beneath the soil,

As miner digging in a mine

Finds rubbish ’mong the gold so fine,

So Moore placed dross in the waste basket

And enshrined jewels in casket,

Where all may view each charming gem

In Ireland’s grand old diadem.

In eastern lands his fame prevails

In wondrous oriental tales,

So full of gems his Lala Rookh,

Hindus and Brahmins read his book,

And dark eyed Persian girls admire

The beauty of his magic lyre,

Glowing like pearls of great price

Those distant gleams of paradise.

He sang of Bryan Borohm’s glory,

Renowned in ancient Irish story,

And shows the wide expanded walls

Which once encircled Tara’s Halls,

When joyous harp did there resound

And Ireland’s greatest king was crowned,

All wars and tumults then did cease,

Ireland did prosper great in peace.

He sung of meeting of the waters

And of Ireland’s charming daughters,

Great minstrel from his harp both flows,

Ireland’s triumphs and her woes,

Canada doth his fame prolong

While she doth sing his great boat song,

And his own countrymen adore

The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.