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58 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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The few and fond and joyous hearts that never can
forget; They pledged—" The girls we left at home, God bless
them ! " and they gave, " The memory of our absent friends, the tender and
the brave! " Then up, erect, with nine times nine—hip, hip, hip—
hurray! Drank—"Erin slantha gal gobragh,"—those exiles,
far away. Then oh; to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music
rise, Like memories of home, beneath far foreign skies, Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised
vine, The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian
pine — Oh ! don't these old familiar tones—now sad, and now
so gay — Speak out your very, very hearts,—poor exiles, far
away!''
But, Heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heedless of
these strains — Tired wanderers, who sought repose through Europe's
battle plains; In strong, fierce, headlong fight they fell—as ships go
down in storms; They fell—and human whirlwinds swept across their
shattered forms. No shroud, but glory, wrapt them round ; nor prayer,
nor tear had they, Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds—poor
exiles, far away. |
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