O, Bay of Dublin! how my heart you’re troublin’, Your beauty haunts me like a fever dream; Like frozen fountains, that the sun sets bubblin’, My heart’s blood warms when I but hear your name; And never till this life’s pulsation ceases, My early, latest thought you’ll fail to be,-- O! none here knows how very fair that place is, And no one cares how dear it is to me. Sweet Wicklow mountains! the soft sunlight sleepin’ On your green uplands is a picture rare; You crowd around me like young maidens peepin’ And puzzlin’ me to say which is most fair, As tho’ you longed to see your own sweet faces Reflected in that smooth and silver sea. My fondest blessin’ on those lovely places, Tho’ no one cares how dear they are to me. How often when alone at work I’m sittin’ And musin’ sadly on the days of yore, I think I see my pretty Katie knittin’, The childer playin’ round the cabin door; I think I see the neighbours’ kindly faces All gathered round, their long-lost friend to see; Tho’ none here knows how very fair that place is, Heav’n knows how dear my poor home was to me. _Lady Dufferin._ CLXXIV LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat, side by side, That bright May morning long ago When first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, The lark sang loud and high, The red was on your lip, Mary, 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, The corn is green again; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, Your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak. ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, The little Church stands near-- The Church where we were wed, Mary-- I see the spire from here; But the graveyard lies between, Mary,-- My step might break your rest,-- Where you, my darling, lie asleep, With your baby on your breast. I’m very lonely now, Mary,-- 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 blessing and my pride; There’s nothing left to care for now Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When trust in God had left my soul, And half my strength was gone. There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow. I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you can’t hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break; When the hunger pain was gnawing there, You hid it for my sake. I bless you for the pleasant word When your heart was sad and sore. O! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more!