Far away beyond the billow,
In Tipperary's Golden Vale,
Brightly bloom the primrose clusters,
Softly blows the summer gale ;
Fondly wave the wildwood roses,
'Neath the trembling, linden leaves ;
Bravely sing the lark and linnet
O'er the low, brown, village eaves ;
The blue lakelet's twilight vapours
Dim each winding, woodland path ;
And the cuckoo-calls re-echo
Thro' the lonely mountain rath.
Ope the casement window, Sarah,
Till I see the fleckered sky,
And the clouds with crimson fringes,
On the far-off mountains lie ;--
Till I hear the surges sighing
O'er the winding Hudson's flood,
And the low, sweet summer breeze
Rushing down the hazel wood;
For I know the east winds laden
With a gentle sigh for me,
And low, whispered words of comfort
From fond friends far o'er the sea.
See, mine eyes are filmed and faded,
And my cheeks are withered now;
Time has whitened my long tresses,
And left furrows on my brow ;
Yet my heart is ever straying
O'er the sea's white flashing foam,
To the land I left in boyhood--
To my childhood's happy home--
To the meadows and the mountains,
And the glens the woods among,
Where I first lisped Ireland's praises,
In the dear, old Gaelic tongue.
But you ask me, Sarah darling,
Why my heart beats thick and slow-
Why mine eyes grow dim with weeping
When you speak of long ago--
When the landlord and the sheriff
Came and pulled our roof-tree down,
Ere we'd stored the wheat and barley
On the bawn's broad levels brown--
Why I still keep sadly thinking
Of the land I left behind--
And the olden hopes and mem'ries
E'er keep crowding on my mind ?
Because I too toiled and laboured
To make Ireland proud and free ;
And I know how still she struggles,
Chained and shackled tho' she be.
In the happy years of childhood,
'Twas her balmy air I breathed ;
And when boyhood's bloom came o'er me,
With sweet songs her brow I wreathed.
Deep within her emerald borders,
Still beat manly hearts and brave,
And her low winds fan the flow'rets,
O'er my Kathleen's early grave.
'Tis for this I love to listen
To the songs her poets sing--
To the tales her children tell me,
And the tidings that they bring.
But my heart-hopes now are blighted,
Like my boyhood dreamings vain;
And I feel the burning fever
Dancing, whirling 'round my brain.
Soon the cypress and the willow
O'er my grave shall droop and bend
And the Hudson's rippiing wavelets
Sing my dirges without end.
But you'll often come sweet Sarah,
"When the darkness drapes the west,
With a bunch of summer lilies
For to plant above my breast ?
And when storms come down the valley,
And the sea-waves lash the shore,
Won't you pray for him who loved you,
And the land he'll see no more ?
Notes
From the Victorian Newspaper The Advocate 20 Feb 1869 p. 11.
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