To me these hills beside the wave
With every year have dearer grown;
Is it so great a thing to crave
To call my native land, mine own?
But why these useless plaints renew?
Farewell! That word, it seems a knell!
If still I'm dear, kind hearts, to you,
'Tis all I ask, Farewell, Farewell!
THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
1883.
"They sow in tears who reap in joy,"
Was truly said of old:
We wandered far, but round us still
Stretched God Almighty's fold.
'Twas He who led us forth; our grief
Discerned His chastening hand,
And saw not, though before our eyes
Shone bright His promised land.
O bless Him for the love that made
The parting greeting sore,
But for the bold heart that He gave
We bless our God yet more!
He gave us hope, He gave us strength;
For us His prairies smile,
The new world's untouched soils for us
Spread boundless, mile on mile.
The richest heritage on earth
For us His mercy saved;
For ages Nature's harvests here
Unknown, ungathered, waved.
Ours now the grain which decks the plains,
Ours all their wondrous yield;
Our children, and our kin possess
Their own, in house and field.
What wonder then if many laugh,
And wonder joy was dumb!
To friends in older lands with less
Our happy hearts say "Come."