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	The Song Book	269
	CCIX SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND

	She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Ev'ry note which he loved awaking;— Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him,— Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his Love stay behind him! Oh ! make her a grave, where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved Island of Sorrow!
	Words by Moore. Tune Oh ! open the door.