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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER; |
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Sweet Wicklow mountains! the sunlight sleeping
On your green banks Is a picture rare, You crowd around me, like young girls peeping,
And puzzling me to say which Is most fair; As tho' you'd see your own sweet faces,
Reflected in that smooth and silver sea, Oh! my blessin' on those lovely places,
Tho' no one cares how dear they are to me. How often when at work I'm sitting, ■ And musing sadly on the days of yore, I think I see my Katy knitting,
And the children playing round the cabin door; I think I see the neighbor's faces
All gather'd round, their long-lost friend to see: Oh! tho' no one knows how fair that place is,
Heaven knows how dear my poor borne was to me. |
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THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.
Farewell Erin, I now must leave you.
And cross the stormy main— Where cruel strife may end my life.
And I'll ne'er see you again. It will break my heart from you to part,
Acushla, Astbore, Machree; For I must go full of grief and woe.
To the shores of America. Chorus.—So now farewell, I can no longer dwell At home Acushla, Macbree; For I must go, full of grief and woe,
To the shores of America. On Irish soil my parents dwelt,
Since the time of Brian Boru; They paid their rent and l'ved content
Convenient to Klllaloo— Until the landlord cruel, sent us ashule,
My poor old mother and me; They banished us from home far away to roam
To the wilds of America.
So now farewell, &c. No more at the churchyard, Asthore, Machree,
On my father's grave can I kneel; The tyrants know but little of the woe
That the poor man has to feel. When I look around on the little spot of ground
Where the cabin used to be; I may curse the laws which has given me cause,
To depart to America.
So now farewell, &c. Where are the neighbors, kind Tind~true,
That once were our country's pride? No more they are seen at the fair on the green,
Or the dance by the green hill side; It is the stranger's cow that is grazing now,
Where the people used to be; With notice they were served and turned out to starve.
Or banished to America.
So now farewell, &c. O Erin, Machree, must your children be
'Exiled all over the earth— Will they think no more of you Asthore, \ The land that gave them birth—
Must the Irish yield to the beast of the field?
O. no, Asthore, Macbree, They are going away in ships, with vengeance on their lips
To. return from America.
So now farewell, &c. |
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