For thee I've tracked the mountain's sides, And slept within the brake, More lonely than the swan that glides O'er Lua's fairy lake. The rich have spurned me from their door, Because I'd make thee free; Yet still I love thee more and more, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! I've run the Outlaw's brief career, And borne his load of ill; His rocky couch--his dreamy fear-- With fixed, sustaining will; And should his last dark chance befall, Even that shall welcome be; In Death I'd love thee best of all, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! 'Twas prayed for thee the world around, 'Twas hoped for thee by all, That with one gallant sunward bound Thou'dst burst long ages' thrall; Thy faith was tried, alas! and those Who'd peril all for thee Were curs'd and branded as thy foes, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! What fate is thine, unhappy Isle, When even the trusted few Would pay thee back with hate and guile, When most they should be true! 'Twas not my strength or spirit failed Or those who'd die for thee; Who loved thee truly have not failed, A cuisle geal mo chroidhe! _Michael Doheny_ LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May mornin', long ago, When first you were my bride: The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high-- And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The _place_ is little changed, Mary, The day is bright as then, The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near-- The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest-- For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, O! they love the better still, The few our Father sends! And you were all _I_ had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride! There's nothin' left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort even on _your_ lip, And the kind look on your brow-- I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.