THE
HERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
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,
For it rose o'er 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!
"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 a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,
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,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
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?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
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,
Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal
"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!
Burled 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 devotion
Erin mavourneen!-Erin go bragh!"
ALONE to the banks of the dark rolling Danube Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er : "Oh whither," she cried, " hast thou wander'd, my lover?
Or here dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore?
"What voice did I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!" All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far, When bleeding, and low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar!
From his bosom that heav'd, the last torrent was streaming,
And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar; And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war!
How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war! "Hast thou come, my fond Love, this last sorrowful night,
To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar ?".
"Thou shalt live!" she replied; "Heaven's mercy, relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn!" "Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving! No light of the morn shall to Henry return!
"Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!
Ye babes of my love, that await me afar!"-
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur," Adieu!"
When he sunk in her arms-the poor wounded
Hussar!
ON the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blythe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went, was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was fore'd from Sheelah to part,
She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)
"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away
And be kind, my dear Pat, to your poor dog Tray."
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly lov'd me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness--my poor dog Tray!
Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd his case,
Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet, on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with any poor dog Tray.
THE last, the fatal hour is come,
That bears my love from me,
I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree!
The bell has toll'd; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart,
To bear a death of shame?
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first, in Roslin's lovely glen,,
You triumph'd o'er my heart?
Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!
Ah I little thought I to deplore
These limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.
Ye cruel, cruel, that combin'd
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!
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