THE EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his robe was heavy and chilly;
For his country he sighed when, at twilight, repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten kill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on its own native isle of the ocean.
Where once, in the flow of his youthful emotion,
he sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.
Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
A home and a country remains not for me.
Ah! never again in the green shady bower,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
Oh! Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more.
And thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me-
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.
Where now is my cabin-door, so fast by the wildwood?
Sisters and sire did weep for its fall;
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is my bosom friend -dearer than all?
Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw;
Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessings,
Land of my fathers, Erin-go-bragh.
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion.
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the ocean, ?
And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin Mavourneen, sweet Erin-go-bragh.