But sure ’tis for your sake I go, a better land to find;
I go to that young isle, Mary, where anger is unknown,
And the children of our widow’d land are cherish’d as her own.
Perhaps in after years I’ll come, unchanged to you again,
And if I win a golden store, I’ll not forget you then.
The peasant’s lowly lot, Mary, I would not have you share,
Altho’ I’m sure you’d bear with me life’s sorrows anywhere.
How happy I had been, Mary, in all that nature will’d,
My cabin by the mountain side, and the ground my father till’d.
But the landlord with the bailiff came, the poor man’s bitter foe,