Bob
Here's Orr's song. Looks pretty unsingable to me.

SONG OF AN EXILE.

In Ireland 'tis evening-from toil my friends hie all
And weary walk home o'er the dew-spangled lea;
The shepherd in love tunes his grief-soothing viol,
Or visits the maid that his partner will be;
The blithe milkmaid trips to the herd that stands lowing;
The west richly smiles, and the landscape is glowing;
The sad-sounding curfew, and torrent fast-flowing,
Are heard by my fancy, though far, far at sea !

What has my eye seen since I left the green valleys,
But ships as remote as the prospect could be;
Unwieldy, huge monsters, as ugly as malice;
And floats of some wreck, which with sorrow I see?
What is seen but the fowl, that its lonely flight urges;
The lightning, that darts through the sky-meeting surges
And the sad-scowling sky, that with bitter rain scourges
This cheek care sits drooping. on, far, far at sea?

How hideous the hold is !-Here, children are screaming-
There, dames faint through thirst, with their babes on their knee
Here, down every hatch the big breakers are streaming,
And there, with a crash, half the fixtures break free!
Some court, some contend, some sit dull stories telling;
The mate's mad and drunk, and the tars tasked and yelling;
What sickness and sorrow pervade my rude dwelling!-
A huge, floating lazar-house, far, far at sea.

How changed all may be when I seek the sweet village:
A hedgerow may bloom where its street used to be;
The floors of my friends may be tortured by tillage,
And the upstart be served by the fallen grandee;
The axe may have humbled the grove that I haunted,
And shades be my shield that as yet are unplanted,
Nor one comrade live who repined when he wanted
The sociable sufferer that's far, far at sea !

In Ireland 'tis night-on the flowers of my setting
A parent may kneel, fondly praying for me;
The village is smokeless-the red moon is getting
That hill for a throne which I hope yet to see.
If innocence thrive, many more have to grieve for;
Success, slow but sure, I'll contentedly live for;
Yes, Sylvia, we'll meet, and your sigh cease to heave for
The swain your fine image haunts, far, far at sea!

HTML line breaks added --JoeClone, 29-Nov-01.