“Sad is my fate!” said the heart-broken stranger; “The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of ‘Erin go bragh!’ “Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit the sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They die to defend me, or live to deplore! “Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom-friend, dearer than all? Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast-fading treasure? Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. “Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! ‘Erin go bragh!’ Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields,—sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,— Erin mavournin[80]—Erin go bragh!’” [78] Anthony McCann, exiled for being implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1798. Campbell met him at Hamburg. [79] Ireland for ever. [80] Ireland my darling. LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. A chieftain to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. “And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?” Outspoke the hardy Highland wight “I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: “And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking;[81] And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.