THE IRISHMAN'S HOME.
Farewell to the cot on the mountain,
And the cradle that first lulled me to sleep;
Tears are falling from nature's own fountain,
As I breast on the waves of the deep.
Land of the loveliest and fairest,
Unmatched wheresoever we roam,
Every night as I rest on my pillow,
I pray for each Irishman's home.
We're going to the land where there's refuge,
From the oppression we're leaving behind;
And our cots ne'er again will they levy.
Or put us out on the bleak winter wind.
But we'll soon see the day we'll return
In splendor, like great ancient Rome,
When no one shall live on thee, poor Erin,
But the sons of each Irishman's home.
The sod that our fathers lie under,
The homes that the children must shun:
Where chieftains have oft fought and have conquered,
The swine-herd now bask in the sun!
But, dear Erin, we never forget thee,
Though fate may compel us to roam?
But ever long to return and make thee
The pride of each Irishman's home.