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HIBERNIAN SONGSTER. 115
And oft on their hills and green valleys
They dance with such light and such graca, That even the daisies they tread on,
Look up with delight in their face.
Then a fig, &c. They tell how this jig it was danced by
The kings and the great men of yore; King O'Toole himself could well foot It,
To a tune they called Rory O'More. And oft in the great hails of Tara,
Our famous King Brien Boru, He danced this old jig with his nobles,
And played on his harp to it, too.
Then a fig, &c. And, sure, when Herodias's daughter
Was dancing in King Herod's sight, His heart, that for years had been frozen.
Was melted with joy and delight. And oft, and a hundred times over,
I heard Father Flanagan tell, "Twas this very same jig that she footed,
That pleased the ouid villain so well.
Then a fig, &e. |
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THE EXILE OF ERIN.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on hts thin robe was hoary and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the flow of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erfn-go-bragh.
*'0 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 and danger, A home and country remain not for me!
Ah! never again in the green shady bowers, , Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet houn
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.
*'0 Erin, my country, though Bad 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, wiit 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, fast by the wildwood?
Sister and sire did weep for Its fall; Where is the mother, that looked 6n my childhood?
And where is my bosom-friend, dearer than all? Ah, my sad soul, lohg abandoned by pleasure.
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the raindrops, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
"But yet all its fond recollections suppressing.
One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw; Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing.
Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh. Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest Isle in the ocean, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin, mavourneen, sweet Erin-go-bragh.'' |
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