Peter Cornclips A Tale of Real Life; With Other Poems & Songs, By Alexander Rodger |
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LAND OF THE SHAMROCK AND HARP. |
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 | Peter Cornclips |  |
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LAND OF THE SHAMROCK AND HARP.
O Land of the Shamrock and Harp! lovely Erin,
Where warm hospitality still wears a smile,
May suns more benign, and may prospects more cheering,
Arise soon, to bless thee, sweet Emerald Isle.
Thou gem of the west, worth and beauty combining,
Tho' dimmed be thy lustre, thy glory declining,
Thou yet wilt astonish the world with thy shining,
And make thyself loved and respected the while.
Where warm hospitality still wears a smile,
May suns more benign, and may prospects more cheering,
Arise soon, to bless thee, sweet Emerald Isle.
Thou gem of the west, worth and beauty combining,
Tho' dimmed be thy lustre, thy glory declining,
Thou yet wilt astonish the world with thy shining,
And make thyself loved and respected the while.
Tho' sad sounds thy harp, though thy shamrock be drooping,
The bravest, the best of thy sons in exile,
Tho' thousands beneath heavy burdens be stooping,
And full pampered insolence triumphs the while.
Thy harp shall awake yet, to strains bold and cheering,
Thy shamrock be seen yet, its lowly head rearing,
And comfort and joy make their homes yet endearing,
To thy injured sons, lovely Emerald Isle.
The bravest, the best of thy sons in exile,
Tho' thousands beneath heavy burdens be stooping,
And full pampered insolence triumphs the while.
Thy harp shall awake yet, to strains bold and cheering,
Thy shamrock be seen yet, its lowly head rearing,
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To thy injured sons, lovely Emerald Isle.
Like thine own Patron Saint, may a Patriot arise soon,
To banish the vile yellow worm from thy soil,
From clouds of black locusts, to clear thy horizon,
Which eat up the fruits of thy children's hard toil;
May Freedom descending in all her mild glory,
Her bright angel wings spread benignantly o'er thee,
Thy ancient renown, thy lost rights to restore thee,
And give thee new splendour, sweet Emerald Isle.
To banish the vile yellow worm from thy soil,
From clouds of black locusts, to clear thy horizon,
Which eat up the fruits of thy children's hard toil;
May Freedom descending in all her mild glory,
Her bright angel wings spread benignantly o'er thee,
Thy ancient renown, thy lost rights to restore thee,
And give thee new splendour, sweet Emerald Isle.
| Peter Cornclips | |