JACOBITE RELICS.
37
THE EXPECTED OF IRELAND.
BY HENRY GRATTAN CURRAN.
I turn to the hills, with the dawn as I waken,
And sickens my soul o'er its promise deferred;
The wave with no hearts exultation is shaken.
No cannon's deep voice o'er Ben-Edar1 is heard.
Oh speed to sustain us! oh leave not the crown
Of green Erin the brow of her tyrant to press!
On her names of renown,
Her invaders look down.
And the Gael's aching heart sinks with shame and distress.
The hope of your coming o'er Erin has brightened,
In wakefulness present—in vision displayed—
Until in your promise her shackles seem lightened,
And rent from her bosom the shroud that arrayed.
