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IRISH MELODIES. |
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What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it ?
Farewell, Erin,— farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade The brows with victory glowing. We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we 've tried
Are by our side, And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin, — farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall. |
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COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. |
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