Though planted in porcelain, and nursed by a Queen,
I was sick at the roots for my own pleasant isle;
Where the winds came so gently to kiss me and love me,
There was tenderness e'en in the breath of the north;
Where the kind clouds would fling their soft shadows above me,
When the hot sun of summer came scorchingly forth.
I pined for those tender grey eyes, whose black lashes
Veil a tear and a smile alike ready to start;
I longed for the mirth, whose unquenchable flashes
Hold a struggle with gloom in the Irishman's heart.