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That ardour of passion for me that he pleaded,
By what female breast could it have been unheeded
The love of his country alone could exceed it,
For still his first wish was for Erin go bragh.
This Harp, on whose strings oft he rous'd each emotion,
Unrivall'd the soft tones of feeling to draw,
He left me, the pledge of his heart's true devotion
And bade me oft strike it to · Erin go bragh.'
On it oft I've dream'd, that he sat in this bower,
And touch'd the sad tale of his exile with power,
Each soul-glowing patriot the strains did devour,
Struck full to the magic of Erin go bragh!
But cease, ye vain dreams! for at morn still I ⟨lose⟩ him,
And cease, my false hopes! for my griefs must ⟨remain⟩."
"No, they must not! (he cried, and he rush'd ⟨to⟩ her bosom)
Your Exile's return'd to his Erin again.
Now fall'n are th' oppressors that sought to destroy me,
Love, friendship, and Erin, shall henceforth ⟨employ⟩ me;"
"'Tis himself!" she exclaim'd, "O, ye powers! ⟨ye⟩ o'erjoy me;
Then blest be my country, blest Erin go bragh."
