Sure we would gladly stop at home
The whole year round, and labour,
But for the harvest-pence we roam
To pick up in the neighbour-
Hood of England, wirrasthrue!
Wouldn't Erin's glory,
With the pen
Of clever men,
Make a pleasant story?
[I could not help laying the book down at this passage to reflect whether the imputation of idleness can be justly thrown upon the Irish. Men who year after year toil through the perils and privations of a journey into another land for the sake of a few shillings, can scarcely be termed lazy; and it is to be regretted that some mode of employment at home is not devised by those in whose power it is to meliorate and tranquillise their condition.]