Bruce's Address (chapbook)/The Exile of Erin

by Thomas Campbell

For other versions of this work, see Exile of Erin.

The Exile of Erin.

THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight' repairing.
To wander alone by the wind beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eyes sad devotion,
For it rose on his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the flower of his youthful emotion,
He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh

O 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 for me;
Ah, never again in the green shady bowers,
Where my forefathers liv'd, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike the sweet numbers of Erin go Bragh.

Oh! Erin my country, tho' 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.
And thou, cruel Fate, wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no sorrow can chace me.
Ah, never again shall my brothers embrace me:
They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

Where now is my cabin door so fast by the wild wood,
Sisters and sire, how ye weep for its fall,
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood,
And where is my bosom friend, dearer than all?
Ah, my sad soul, long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure?
Tears like the rain, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recal.

But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my fond bosom shall draw,
Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing,
Land of my forefathers—Erin go Bragh;
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle in the ocean,
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,
Erin ma vourneen, sweet Erin go Bragh.