Erin, our country, as, weak and heart-broken,
We wander half-starved over mountain and shore,
And search for a remnant of hope, or a token
That life may be glad to our spirits once more;
Can we trust that the hearths, now forlorn and forsaken,
To welfare shall warm and to laughter awaken,
And the dust from the wings of thy glory be shaken
To the future reëcho of Erin-go-bragh!
Sweet solace it were to the heart of the dying,
That throbs his last pulse out on pitiless ground,