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THE EXILE OF ERIN.
THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin ;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
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 a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
A home and a country remain not for me! Ah! never again, in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet
hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the 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 deplore. Where now is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ?
Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood ?
And where is my bosom-friend,-dearer than all ? Ah, my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure ! Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond 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 of the ocean, And the harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavourneen! sweet Erin go bragh!
08, the summer night
Has a smile of light,
Whilst the sweet winds load her
With garlands of odour,
But the Autumn night
Has a piercing sight,
And a voice for wonder,
Like the wrath of the thunder,
And the Winter night
Is all cold and white,
Till the wild bee hummeth,
Oh, the night brings sleep
To the greenwoods deep,
To care, soft hours ;
To life, new powers ;
WHEN THE WIND BLOWS.
'Tis not for any one here, I trow.
For all below.
Yet Spring doeth all she can, I trow,
For all below.
THE SHEPHERD AND HIS DOG ROVER:
And glory crowns our shelt'ring tree.
My faithful dog, let's haste away,
And hail the source of cheerful day
Half his broad orb o'erlooks the hill,
And darting down the valley flies, At every casement welcome still,
The golden summons of the skies. Go, fetch my staff, and o'er the dews
Let echo waft thy gladsome voice ; Shall we a cheerful note refuse,
When rising morn proclaims “rejoice”? Now then, we'll start; and thus I'll sing,
Our store, a trivial load to bear;
I'll not encroach on Rover's share.
The lark but chides us while we stay;
WINTER SONG. WHEN once I leave the town behind, What rapture animates my mind ; Rejoic'd I hail heaven, earth and sea, So dear is this fair scene to me! Around I look with gladden'd eyes, Like some exulting bird that flies Forth from its narrow prison-door, And mounts and sings still more and more. And all around appears so fair, Though drest in winter's vesture bare The frozen lake, so hard and white ; The woods with twinkling diamonds bright. Among the branches to and fro, The little songsters come and go ; Rejoicing in the transient ray That streams upon the wither'd spray.
Here infant seeds prepare to shoot,
THE GOOD OLD PLOUGH.
And the deeds that have long since past:
Are spent on the ocean vast.
render to these all the worship you please, I would honour them even now; But I'd give far more from my heart's full store,
To the cause of the Good Old Plough. Let them laud the notes that in music float
Through the bright and glittering halls :
Round the shoulder of beauty falls.
And the rich and blossoming bough;
As he follows the Good Old Plough.
With a selfish and hollow pride,
With a scornful look deride :
From his hand, than to wealth I'd bow ;
Has stood by the Good Old Plough.
When at last they are bow'd with toil ;
For they've conquer'd the stubborn soil.