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For his country he sighed, when at twi light 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 Erin go bragh.

O 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 hours,

Or cover my harp with the wild woven

flowers,

And strike the sweet numbers of Erin go bragh.

O 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;

And thou, cruel fate, wilt 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 de plore.

Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wildwood?

Sister 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 a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drops, may fall with out 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.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
COUNTESS OF GIFFORD.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again!
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,

And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'ning for the words You never more may speak.

"Tis but a step down yonder lane,

And the little church stands near; The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,

And my step would break your rest, For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But oh! they love the better far,
The few our father sends !

And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died!

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I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm going to!
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

THE BLARNEY.

SAMUEL LOVER.

AIR-"Kate Kearney."

OH! did you ne'er hear of the Blarney That's found near the banks of Killar

ney?
Believe it from me,

No girl's heart is free,

Once she hears the sweet sound of the Blarney.

The Blarney's so great a deceiver, That a girl thinks you 're there tho' you leave her;

And she never finds out

All the tricks you 're about,

Till she's quite gone herself with your

blarney.

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