MRS. T. SPOTISWOOD ASH,
THE MANOR HOUSE,
BELLAGHY, IRELAND.
* * * * *
IN THE NORTHWEST.
"I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair."
In myriads o'er the prairie
Bright flowers bloom strangely fair,
There's beauty in the clear blue sky,
There's sweetness in the air;
And loveliness, with lavish hand,
Decks dell and dingle gay;
Yet still I love my native land—
The Green Isle, far away.
The poplar quivers in the breeze,
And by the blue lake's side.
The regal iris, tall and fair,
Blooms in her native pride;
But I dream of the broad beeches' shade
In glens beside Lough Neagh
And my longing thoughts go back to thee,
O, Green Isle, far away!
Strange birds, in painted plumage gay,
In hundreds haunt the grove;
O'er marsh and moor, the loon and heron,
The coot and plover rove;
But I miss the lark's glad matin song,
And the thrush and blackbird's lay,
The summer songsters, sweet and wild,
In the Green Isle, far away.
Along the blue horizon line
The "bluffs" rise 'gainst the sky,
But in dreams I see Old Erin's coast—
Her mountains wild and high
Slieve Gallon, with his hoary head
Gold-crowned at close of day,
When sunset lights the grand old hills
In the Green Isle, far away.
There's beauty in the woodland wilds
With their varied foliage fair,
But, cowering from the light of day,
The grim wolf shelters there.
Ah! dear old woods, where I have roamed
At eve of summer day,
No hidden dangers haunt your glades,
In the Green Isle, far away.