But a steamer attracted his eye’s sad devotion,
And he thought as he watched it glide over the ocean,
“There’s one thing that keeps my poor grinders in motion,
And that’s emigration from “Erin-go-Bragh.”
“Sad is my fate!” groaned the purple-nosed stranger,
To beg I’m ashamed, and to dig I don’t agree;
I have no refuge from famine and danger
But to set up a pub in the Land of the Free.
Never again, at the midnight’s small hours,
Shall I swig the old port in those well-furnished bowers,