And, if on earth we meet no more,
Grant, in thy boundless love,
That I till death may faithful be,
And meet with her above.

* * * * *

IRELAND.

Thou green isle of sorrows, I think of thee daily,
And sad are the thoughts that come into my brain,
When here, to my home, o'er the wide, rolling ocean,
Is wafted the news of thy trouble and pain.

Oh, Erin! I love thee in spite of thine errors,
And now for thee, Erin, my heart is forlorn,
Disturb'd as thou art by such various terrors,
Thou beautiful isle, where my kindred were born.

E'en now, in my thoughts, I can climb thy steep
mountains,
Or roam through thy valleys, where green shamrocks
grow,
Or over thy meadows, where hedges of hawthorn
Stand gracefully clipp'd, an impassable row.

And I see the thatch'd cottage, where often, the
stranger,
With kind word of welcome, is met at the door;