To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling,
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep,
Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling;-
But why are we sad, who this festival keep?
We weep not for ourselves;-for our fathers, our mothers,
Whom we ne'er shall see more; for our sisters, our brothers,
Whom we hope to see yet; O yes, and for others
We may not name aloud,-'t is for these that we weep.
Poor Ireland! how long shall thy hardly earned treasures
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge,
Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures,
Or swelling the train of a William or George!
'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean;
Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion
We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion,
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge.
At evening, the blue eyes of many a maiden
In Erin are lifted to look at the star,
That is hung in the west; and the night wind is laden
With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar.
Girls of the green isle, O do not deplore us!
In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us,
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us,
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar.
Though absent, the fount of our faith is not frozen;
While we live, of its up-welling waters we'll draw,
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've chosen,
Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law.
'Land of the free! for the shelter thou 'st given
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from heaven!'
Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh.