If ever I’m near thee, I’ll go with the rest;
Oh! may they in multitude yearly increase,
And the boatmen grow rich by their sixpence apiece
Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland’s protector,
Thy mem’ry I drink in a draught of “L. L.”
If ever a “medium” should show me thy spectre,
How gladly I’ll bow to his mystical spell!
Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter,
And may she grow ever more lovely and gay,
Forgetting the troubles the past may have brought her,