Sailor's tragedy (4)/The poor exile of Erin

For other versions of this work, see Exile of Erin.

---

THE POOR EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin;
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill:
⁠But the day-star attracted his eyes sad devotion,
⁠For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
⁠Where once in the flow of his youthful emotion,
⁠⁠He sung the bold anthem of Erin Go Bragh.

Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolfe to a cover can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine or danger,
A home and a country remain not to me!
⁠Ah! never again in the green sunny bow’rs,
⁠Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
⁠Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
⁠⁠And strike to the numbers of Erin Go Bragh.

Erin, my country; tho’ sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more.
⁠Ah cruel Fate! Wilt thou never replace me,
⁠In a mansion of peace where no peril can chace me?
⁠Ah never again shall my brothers embrace me⁠
⁠⁠They died to defend me or live to deplore.

Where is my cabin door fast by the wild wood?
Sister and sire do you weep for its fall
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood,
And where is the bosom friend dearer than all.
⁠All my sad soul I long abandoned by pleasure;
⁠Why did it doat on a fast falling treasure⁠
⁠Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure
⁠But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

But yet all its fond recollection surpassing,
One dying wish my fond bosom will draw;
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,
Land of my forefathers, Erin Go Bragh.
⁠Buried and cold while my heart stills its motion;
⁠Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,
⁠And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
⁠⁠Erin ma Vourneen Erin Go Bragh.