THE EXILE OF ERIN

There came to the beach, an exile of Erin,
The dew on his robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone, by the wind-beaten kill.

But the daystar attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose on it's own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the flow of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.

Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to cover can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
A home and a country remains not for me.

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin-go-bragh.

Oh! Erin my country, though sad 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.

An thou, cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
They died to defend me, or lived to deplore.

Where now is my cabin door so fast by the wildwood?
Sisters and sire did weep for its fall,
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is my bosom friend--dearer than all?

Ah! my sad soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on fast fading treasure?
Tears like the rain may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet all it's fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessings,
Land of my father's Erin-go-bragh.

Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweet isle in the ocean;
And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin manoureen, sweet Erin-go-bragh.