The Exile of Erin
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe hung heavy and chill,
For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
But the days star attracted his eyes sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native Isle of the ocean,
Where once in the glow of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold athem of Erin Ya 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 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 Ya Bragh!
O, where is my cottage that stood by the wold wood?
Sisters and sires, did ye weep for its fall?
O, where is the mother that watched over my childhood,
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all?
Ah! my sad, soul, long abandoned by pleasure,
O, why did it doat on a fast fading treasure,
Tears, like the rain drops, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall!
Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore!
But alas! in a far distant land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
O, hard, cruel fate, with thou never replace me,
In a mansion of peace where no peril can chase me?
Ah! never again shall my brothers embrace me,
They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
But yet, all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my love bosom shall draw:
Erin, an exile bequeaths there his blessings,
Land of my forefathers, Erin Ya Bragh!
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isles of the ocean,
And they harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
O, Erin ma, vorneen, Erin Ya Bragh!