My empty hands to thy throne I lift,
While parting sorrow my spirit swells,
Lord, thou wilt give him a birthday gift
Out of the place where Thy fulness dwells.
He's called and chosen to dare and do,
To uphold Thy banner on battle field;
Be Thou to him strength and wisdom too,
In the day of strife, his sword and shield.
More than I ask Thou wilt give, O King!
What is my friendship or care to Thine!
To the banquet house Thy hand will bring
And refresh his lips with the kingdom's wine.
MY OWN GREEN LAND
It was in the early morning
Of life, and of hope to me,
I sat on a grassy hillside
Of the Isle beyond the sea,
Erin's skies of changeful beauty
Were bending over me.
The landscape, emerald tinted,
Lying smiling in the sun,
The grass with daisies sprinkled,
And with shamrocks over run,
The Maine water flashed and dimpled,
Still flowing softly on.
The lark in the blue above me,
A tiny speck in the sky,
Rained down from its bosom's fulness
A shower of melody,
Dropping through the golden sunlight,
And sweetly rippling by
Afar in the sunny distance,
O'er the river's further brim,
Like a stern old Norman warder,
Stood the castle tall and grim,
And, nearer a grassy ruin,
Where an old name grew dim
I knew that the balmy gladness
Was brooding from sea to sea,
But I felt a note of sadness
That sobered my youthful glee,
The love of my mother Erin
Stirred all my heart in me
Oh Erin! my mother Erin,
Thou land of the tearful smile,
Hearts that feel, and hands of helping
Are thy children's blessed Isle'
The stranger is so no longer
That rests on thy breasts awhile