THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOG. On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe 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 forced from my Sheelah to part, She said while the sorrow was big at her heart "O! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away, And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray." Poor dog! he was faithful, and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved 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 licked me for kindness-my poor dog Tray. Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; 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, Campbell. EXILE OF ERIN.* There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, 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 fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of "Erin go bragh."+ Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger ; Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, * Ireland Ireland for Ever. Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, more ! Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me Never again shall my brothers embrace me? Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 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 devotion, Erin mavournin,*-Erin-go-bragh! Campbell. THE BEECH-TREE'S PETITION. O leave this barren spot to me! Thrice twenty summers I have seen * Ireland my Darling. |