Ireland.

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily,      And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain,     When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,      Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.     Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors,      And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn,     Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors,      Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.     E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep mountains,      Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks grow,     Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn      Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.     And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the stranger,      With kind word of welcome, is met at the door;     The castle or tow'r, a shelter from danger,      When foemen invaded thy sea-beaten shore.     Oh, Erin, I roam, in my thoughts, by thy rivers,      I stand by thy lakes, in delight at the view,     And ever I pray for the time, that delivers      This nation from strife, and from misery, too.     From Shannon's green banks unto Erne's limpid waters,      I've travell'd in thought, while this was my pray'r:     That sons of Fermanagh, and Limerick's daughters.      Should join in a union of loyalty, there.     For what loyal maid, from the banks of the Shannon,      Or what Irish lad, from the slopes of the Bann,     Would not dread the day, when the boom of the cannon      Should speak of destruction and death, from the van?     And what loyal son of old Ireland's glory,      From Cork's cove of beauty, to Foyle's distant shore,     Would not mourn the day, when, cold, lifeless and gory,      Brave forms downfallen, should rise never more?     And who would not hail, throughout Erin's dominion,      The time when Religion's bright form should arise,     And sail o'er the land; with her blest, healing pinion,      And bring to all hearts the truth in one guise?     And then, in his home, afar o'er the ocean,      Or by the turf fire, upon Erin's old sod,     Each Irishman, kneeling in humble devotion,      Would love all his brothers, while praying to God.     Oh Erin, mavourneen! Let Love's joyous fingers      Strike out from your harps, one glad, resonant strain,     And, if one discordant, harsh, jarring note lingers,      Oh, strike for your country, together again!     And then, when your hands and your hearts are united,      When you kneel at one shrine, when you bow to one law.     With a sea of glad brightness, your isle shall be lighted,      While thunders the chorus, of Erin-go-bragh.