Bright is the dew on the three-leaved clover,
Green is the grass that they bend above,
Fair are the hills that I wander over,
But, O, for a glimpse of the land' I love !
Far-off Erin,
Long-lost Erin !
God be good to the land I love !
Sweet is the breath of the fresh cool morning,
Blithe are the birds on each leafy spray
But my heart still longs for the lark at dawning,
And, the cowslips' scent in the month of May !
Green-robed Erin,
Flower-crowned Erin,
Angels roam in thy fields in May !
Gay is thy brook as it wanders by me,
Flowing on to the sunlit sea ;
But the singing waters of Erin nigh me
Were the harp's own ripple of melody.
Flute-voiced Erin,
Rill-gemmed Erin,
Silver-tongued is thy melody !
Dear is the love of the friends around me--
I pay full tribute of grateful team--
But Irish hearts with a gold chain bound me,
Ever theirs through the change for years !
Dear old Erin,
Longed-for Erin,
Thou hast my heart through the changeful years !
Rest is sweet the soul at even', changeful years !
Rest is sweat to the soul at even',
God is beside me here as there
Yet it would be a foretaste of Heaven
To die last on thy bosom fair !
Dearesfe Erin,
Tend'rest Erin,
sleep my last sleep on thy bosom fair !
--Marion Miller.
Notes
From the Melbourne Newspaper The Advocate 6 Apr 1901 p. 5.
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