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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


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


Nor case,

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his

case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; But he died at my feet one cold winter's day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog


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 my poor dog Tray.



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 re

pairing 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 ;

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 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 !”

* Ireland

+ Ireland for Ever.

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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

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 looked on my child

And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than

Oh! my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without

But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections 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 de

votion, Erin mavournin,* _Erin-go-bragh!



O leave this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue ;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me;
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree !

Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green ; :
And many a wintry wind have stood
In bloomless, fruitless solitude,

* Ireland my Darling.

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