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TO IRELAND
Though far from the land where Shannon's blue waters
'Mid daisy-clad valleys so mightily roll;
Where balm-breathing meadows and bright bubbling streamlets
Delight the rapt vision, enamour the soul;
Yet, oh! my loved Erin, dear land of my fathers!
From my breast thy fond image shall never depart—
Still nearest, still dearest, in joy and in sorrow,
Dear land of my childhood, dear land of my heart!
Though still with thy sorrows the breezes are laden,
Though thy glory and freedom should never return,
Though the song of thy praise ne'er a hand should awaken.
And no soldier to right thee in battle should burn;
