Or, Mitchell in Norfolk Island.
There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his breeches was heavy and chill;
He thought of the days of his spouting and “beering,”
As he rattled his chains on the wind-beaten hill.
He looked towards the north with an air of devotion,
And thought of the very green isle of the ocean,
Which once he had put in such awful commotion
By bawling and roaring out Erin-go-bragh!
“Sad is my fate,” said the gray-coated stranger,