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THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S SONG.
I sit beside the mighty stream that rolls down like a sea,
And think upon the Burn-side where my true love sat by me!
Where we said our sad and parting words the evening of the day,
The last I spent with them I loved before I came away;
Where my little Kathleen sat by me, her hand within my own,
And wept to think that I should go so far away alone;
It seems to me I see her still—Och hone! Och hone!
Thinking of the days that are long enough agone!
And think upon the Burn-side where my true love sat by me!
Where we said our sad and parting words the evening of the day,
The last I spent with them I loved before I came away;
Where my little Kathleen sat by me, her hand within my own,
And wept to think that I should go so far away alone;
It seems to me I see her still—Och hone! Och hone!
Thinking of the days that are long enough agone!
No more the thousand welcomes send their music to my heart,
No more the kind "Heaven prosper ye!" when kindred meet and part;
Amid the trackless forest-wilds a lonely man I stray,
Where never word of greeting comes to cheer me on my way;
Far from the looks I love the best, from each familiar tone,
Here must I live and labour on, alone—alone!
Yet I work, I work and pray for them—Och hone! Och hone!
Thinking on the days that are long enough agone!
No more the kind "Heaven prosper ye!" when kindred meet and part;
Amid the trackless forest-wilds a lonely man I stray,
Where never word of greeting comes to cheer me on my way;
Far from the looks I love the best, from each familiar tone,
Here must I live and labour on, alone—alone!
Yet I work, I work and pray for them—Och hone! Och hone!
Thinking on the days that are long enough agone!
