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264 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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REV. J. PIERPONT
(1785-1866)
ODE
Air, " Paddy's Land"
T
O the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling, And where the remains of our forefathers sleep, Our eyes turn to-day with the tears in them swelling;—
But why are we sad, who this festival keep ? We weep not for ourselves;—for our fathers, our
mothers, Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our
brothers, , Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others We may not name aloud,—'tis for these that we weep.
Poor Ireland! how long shall thy hardly earn'd treasures
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge, Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George ! 'Tis not so with thy sons on this side of the Ocean ; Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion.
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge. |
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