Pity the fate of a poor Irish stranger,
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That wanders so far from his home,
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That sighs for protection from want, woe, and danger,
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That knows not from which way for to roam.
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Yet I'll never return to Hibernia's green bowers,
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For tyranny tramples the sweetest of flowers,
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That once gave me comfort in loneliest hours?
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Now they are gone I shall ne'er see them more.
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With wonder I gazed on yon lofty building,
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As in grandeur I rose from its lord,
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But soon I beheld my fair garden yielding
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The choicest of fruit for his foe.
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But, where is my father's lone cottage of clay,
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Wherein I' ve spent many a long day,
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Alas ! has his lordship conniv'd it away ?
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Yes, it is gone, I shall never see it more.
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When nature was seen in the sloe bush and bramble,
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All smiling in beautiful bloom,
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Over the fields without danger, I often
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Did ramble amidst their perfume ;
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I have wranged through the woods where the gay feather'd
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throng
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Joyfully sung their loud echoing song?
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These days then of summer passed sweetly along,
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Now they're gone?I shall ne'er see them more !
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When the sloe and the berries hung ripe on the bushes
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I have gathered them off without harm?
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I have gone to the field and shorn the green rushes,
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Preparing for winter's cold storm !
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Along with my friends telling tales of delight,
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Beguiling the hours of the long winter's night,
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Those days gave me pleasure?I could them invite ;
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Now they're gone, I shall ne'er see them more.
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Oh, Erin ! oh, Erin ! it grieves me to ponder
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The wrongs of thy injurned isle !
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Of thy sons may a thousand from home do wander
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On shores far away an exile !
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But give me the power to cross the main,
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Calumbia might yield me some shelter from pain,
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I am only lamenting whilst here I remain,
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For the boys I shall ne'er see again.
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The Irish Stranger
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| Andy M. Stewart |
