Exile’s Lament, The

Beneath a fair Australian sky an Irish exile lay,
The sand from out his glass of life was ebbing fast away;
The friends that stood around his bed his eyes could scarcely see;
His thoughts, which soon would be at rest, were far across the sea.
In spirit once again he stood upon his native sod,
Where as a child, and as a man his foot had lightly trod;
In fancy he could feel upon his brow the mountain air,
And from his parted lips there issued soft the exile’s prayer.

Lay me on the hillside, with my face towards the West ;
Towards that sacred island, the land that I love best;
Let a bunch of shamrocks green be planted o’er my grave ;
My dying pray’r is "May god bless the island of the brave.”

Eviction foul and cruel sent him far across the foam,
From that sweet spot which Irishmen, where’er they be, call home.
The land whose halls have felt the tread of princes and of kings,
Whose harp once wooed the world is now a mass of broken strings.
They were forced to leave the land which gave their fathers birth,
As strangers and outcasts to wander o’er the earth.
The time came back to him again when he was but a child,
With mem’ries of sweet rambles thro’ her woods and valleys wild.

Each eye was wet with briny tears, his words had touched the heart,
For they were exiles too, and time, has failed to heal the smart;
In every clime beneath the sky, the Irish race are seen,
Yet still their every thought is fixed upon that Isle so green.
He calls his friends around him, for the end is drawing near,
And from his pale and haggard cheek they wiped away a tear;
Another victim of mis-rule, has felt the hand of death,
"God bless you, Ireland," were the words which filled his dying breath.