There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin ; The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill, For his country he figh'd, when at twilight repairing. To wander alone by the wind beaten hill. But the day flat attracted his eye's sad devo- tion, For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean ; Where once in the flow of his youthful emo- tion, He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Brah.

Oh! sad is my fate, said the heart broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee ; But I, have no refuge from famine or danger, A home and a country remain not for me! Ah never again in the green shady bowers, Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours ; Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers And strike to the numbers of Erin go Brah;

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 who can meet me no more ; Oh cruel fate, wilt though never replace me, In a mansion of bliss, where no peril can chase me? Ah never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door fast by the wild wood Sisters, and fire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is my mother, who watch'd o'er my childhood, And where is the bosomfriend dearer than all? Ah! My sad soul ! long abandon'd by plea- sure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure ? Tears like the rain drop may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty, they cannot recall.

Yet all its fond recollections suppressing, One dying with my lone bosom shall draw Erin, an Exile, bequeaths thee his blessing, Land of my forefather, Erin go Brah. Buried, and cold, when my heart stills its motion; Green be thy fields sweetest isle of the ocean ; And thy harp stringing bards, sing aloud with devotion, "Erin ma vourneen - Erin go Brah."

St. Patrick's Day in the Morning

Ye lads and ye lasses so buxom and clever, Who come from Hibernia, of famous renown; Put on your best bibs and be coming together, So neatly yourselves all adorning, The music shall be sweetly playing, Each shall be dancing and skipping around, Green shamrocks shall shine, sir, To make us all fine, sir ; Salt fish and potatoes Shall smoke my dear creatures, And nothing be wanting that there can be found ; Full bumpers of whisky, Will make us all frisky, On Patrick's day in the morning.

There's Phelim O'Fagan and ruddy-fac'd Paddy; With many tall fellows to make up the wake; Miss Blarney will dance with her mammy and daddy, And play till the evening's return ; With mirth and music, dance and caper While each pretty miss, sir, We'll smuggle and kiss, sir, And pull 'em and haul 'em; And tenderly maul 'em, Arrah, who in the world are so marry as we? All this to begin, sir, We think it no sin, sir, On St. Patrick's day in the morning.