Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When trust in God had left my soul,
And half my strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow.
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you can’t hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break;
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
You hid it for my sake.
I bless you for the pleasant word
When your heart was sad and sore.
O! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can’t reach you more!
I’m bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary—kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling,
In the land I’m going to.
They say there’s bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.
And when amid those grand old woods
I sit and shut my eyes,
My heart will travel back again
To where my Mary lies;
I’ll think I see the little stile
Where we sat, side by side,—
And the springing corn and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
Lady Dufferin.
FERGUSON
CLXXV
O’BYRNE’S BARD TO THE CLANS OF WICKLOW
(From the Irish)
God be with the Irish host!
Never be their battle lost!
For, in battle, never yet
Have they basely earned defeat.