Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. "'Tis the Last Rose of Summer," (l. 1-4). . . Oxford Book of Light Verse, The. W. H. Auden, ed. (1938) Oxford University Press.)

My only books Were woman's looks And folly's all they taught me.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. repr. In Moore's Poetical Works, ed. A.D. Godley (1910). "The time I've lost in wooing," st. 1, Irish Melodies (1807).)

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone
In the ranks of death you'll find him,
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. The Minstrel Boy (l. 1-4). . . Family Book of Best Loved Poems, The. David L. George, ed. (1952) Doubleday & Company.)

Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. The Meeting of the Waters (l. 9-10). . . Oxford Book of Light Verse, The. W. H. Auden, ed. (1938) Oxford University Press.)

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. The Meeting of the Waters (l. 1-2). . . Oxford Book of Light Verse, The. W. H. Auden, ed. (1938) Oxford University Press.)

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. repr. In Moore's Poetical Works, ed. A.D. Godley (1910). "The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls," st. 1, Irish Melodies (1807).)

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her hand she bore.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore (l. 1-2).)

And hearts that once beat high for praise
Now feel that pulse no more!

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. The Harp That Once through Tara's Halls (l. 7-8). . . Oxford Book of Nineteenth-Century English Verse, The. John Hayward, ed. (1964; reprinted, with corrections, 1965) Oxford University Press.)

Oft, in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. repr. In Moore's Poetical Works, ed. A.D. Godley (1910). "Oft in the Stilly Night," National Airs (1815).)

Heaven grant him now some noble nook,
For, rest his soul! he'd rather be
Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke,
Than sav'd in vulgar company.

(Thomas Moore (1779-1852), Irish poet. "Epitaph on a Tuft-Hunter.")