Soul of a Harper



Oh, they say ’tis a hanging
that soon I will be–
My body a-twisting from
yonder oak tree–
For daring to think that a man
could live free…
but though I may die,
’tis a harper I’ll be.

The strings of my harp
will never be stilled
while the green of the shamrock
still grows on the hill
for the music of Ireland
is her strength and her will
and the soul of a harper
no mortal can kill.

Oh, the red-headed queen on her
cold golden throne
fears harper freedom
she never has known
Our bright Gaelic passion
comes through in the tone
so she orders it silenced
and broods all alone.

For a man of the road,
death holds no sting.
‘Tis another adventure–
a wonderous thing.
And I know that my music
will evermore ring
in the hills and the rivers
of each Irish spring.

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