Here's another song that uses "Erin go Bragh" as a refrain. All the examples I found were American.

From Magazine of Wit, and American Harmonist (Philadelphia: M'Carty & Davis, 1821), page 115:


THE EXILE'S RETURN

O'er the hills of Slief gallen as homeward he wandered,
The Exile of Erin oft paused with delight,
To dear recollection his soul he surrendered—
And each well known object return'd to his sight.
Here was the brook oft he leap'd so light hearted,
Here was the bower where with love first he smarted,
And here was the old oak where, when he departed,
He carv'd his last farewell; 'twas Erin go Bragh.

His heart wild was beating, when softly assailed him
The sound of a harp, O, he listened with joy;
What quick'ning emotions his visage reveal'd them.
And the fire of his country beamed strong in his eye.
A sweet female voice soon the love strains attended.
'Twas dear to his fond soul that o'er it suspended.
With each note the feeling of accent ascended,
Struck full to the magic of Erin go Bragh.

I once had a lover, thus ran the sweet numbers,
Now doom'd far from me and his country to mourn.
Perhaps in the cold bed of death e'en he slumbers.
My soul can'st thou think he will ever return?
Yes, he shall for he lives and his past woes redressing,
His country will hail him with smiles and caressing,
Then lock'd in thy arms, he'll pronounce her his blessing,
That country which wrong'd him, his Erin go Bragh.

As a lamb he was meek, as a dove he was tender,
And form'd was his bosom for friendship and love,
But call'd by his country, still swift to defend her,
Undaunted and swift as the Eagle he'd move.
That ardor of passion for me which he pleaded,
By what female breast would it have been unheeded?
The love of his country alone could exceed it,
For still his first wish was for Erin go Bragh.

This harp on whose strings oft he's roused each emotion,
Unrival'd the soft tones of feeling to draw,
He left me the pledge of his heart s true devotion,
And bade me oft strike it to Erin go Bragh.
O'er it oft I have dream'd that he sat in this bower,
And touch'd the sad tale of his exile with power,
Each soul glowing Patriot the strains did devour,
Struck full to the numbers of Erin go Bragh.

But cease ye vain dreams, for at morn still I lose him,
And cease my fond hopes for my grief must return.
"No, they must not," he cried, and rush'd to her bosom.
"Your exile's return'd to his Erin again.
Now fall'n are the oppressors who sought to destroy me.
Love, friendship, and Erin shall henceforth employ me."
"'Tis himself," she exclaim'd. "Oh! ye powers, ye o'erjoy me.
Then bless'd be my country, bless'd Erin Go Bragh."