Montreal Daily Star, 17 March 1911, page 8


Poems in Honour of St Patrick’s Day





There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin

The day on his thin robe was heavy and chill,

For his country he sigh’d when at twilight repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;

But the day-star attracted his eyes sad devotion,

For it rose o’er his own native Isle of the ocean,

Where soon, in the fire of his youthful emotion,

He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh


Oh, said is my fate! Said the heart-broken stranger,

The wild deer and wolf to a covert may flee;

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not to 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 the sweet numbers of Erin go bragh.


Oh! 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

Ah! Cruel fate! Wil though never replace me

In a mansion of peace where perils can chase me?

Ah! Never again shall my brothers embrace me!

They died to defend me or live to deplore!


Oh! Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sirs, did you weep for its fall?

Oh! Where is the mother that look’d on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?

Ah! My sad heart long abandon’d by pleasure,

Why didst though doat on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears like the rain-drop play fall without measure,

But recapture and beauty they cannot recall!


But yet, all its sad recollections, suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom shall draw,

Oh! Erin! An exile bequeaths his blessing!

Dear land of my forefathers, Erin go bragh!

Oh! Buried and cold, when heart stills its motion

Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion

Oh! Erin, mavoureen! Erin go bragh!


                        Thos Campbell




Whatever fate has stored for me,

I hold no greater pride on earth,

Than I bear an Irish name

And know I am of Irish birth!


                                    Annie Alley

                                    (Charlottetown, PEI)




Oh, tell me, will I ever win to Ireland again,

Ashore from the far North-West?

Have we given al the rainbows, and green woods an’ rain

For the sun an; the snows of the West?

Them that goes to Ireland must travel night an’ day,

An’ them that goes to Ireland must sail across the say,

For the len’th of here to Ireland is half for the world away-

An’ you’ll lave your heart behind you in the West

Set your face for Ireland,

Kiss your friends in Ireland,

But lave your heart behind you in the West.


On a dim an’ shiny mornin’ the ship she comes to land,

Early on, early in the mornin’,

The silver wathers o’ the Foyle go slidin’ to the strand,\

Whisperin’ ye’re welcome in the mornin’

There’s darkness on the holy hills I know are close aroun’

But the stars are shinin’ up the sky, the stars are shinin’ down

They make a golden cross abouve, they make a golden crown,

An’ meself could tell ye why- in the mornin’

Sure an’ this is Ireland,

Thank God for Ireland

I’m coming back to Ireland the mornin’

                                    Moira O’Neill