And he cast me out to live or die, as God should will it so.
I would not live in Ireland now, for she’s a fallen land,
And the tyrant’s heel on her neck, with her reeking blood-stain’d hand.
There’s not a foot of Irish ground, but’s trodden down by slaves,
Who die unwept, and then are flung, like dogs, into their graves.
My troubles make me grieve, Mary, and I often wish to die,
And I long to find the green churchyard where all my kindred lie.
’Tis pleasant when the heart is broke, to sleep beneath the dust,
But I still hope on for better days, and place in God my trust.
I’m leaving you, my Mary dear, they’re painful words to speak,