EXILE OF ERIN. THERE The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh! Erin my country! though sad and forsaken, But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me? Never again, shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields-sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo tion Erin mavournin!-Erin go bragh! * Ireland my darling-Ireland for ever. LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMMEMORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much lov'd land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia's shore! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And first, amidst the brave, remember Moore! t |