——:o:——
THE LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I’m sitting on the stile, Mary, where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning, long ago, when first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green, and the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary, and the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary, the day is bright as then,
The lark’s loud song is in my ear, and the corn is green again,
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, and your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words you never more may speak!