By Bernard Barton
Though lofty Scotia's mountains,
Where savage grandeur reigns;
Though bright be England's fountains,
And fertile be her plains :
When 'mid their charms I wander,
Of thee I think the while,
And seem of thee the fonder,
My own green isle !
While many who have left-thee,
Seem to forget thy name,
Distance hath not bereft me
Of its endearing claim :
Afar from thee sojourning,
Whether I sigh or smile,
I call thee still, "Ma vourneen"--
My own green isle !
Fair as the glittering waters
Thy emerald banks that lave,
To me thy graceful daughters,
Thy generous sons as brave.
Oh ! there are hearts within thee
Which know not shame or guile,
And such proud homage win thee--
My own green isle !
For their dear sakes I love thee,
Ma vourneen, though unseen ;
Bright be the sky above thee,
Thy shamrock ever green ;
May evil ne'er distress thee,
Nor darken nor defile,
But heaven for ever bless thee--
My own green isle !
Notes
From the Tasmanian Newspaper The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser 7 Jan 1836 p. 4.
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