Lays from the West

Excerpt

IN THE NORTHWEST.

"I'll not forget Old Ireland, were it fifty times as fair."

In myriads o'er the prairie
  Bright flowers bloom strangely fair,
There's beauty in the clear blue sky,
  There's sweetness in the air;
And loveliness, with lavish hand,
  Decks dell and dingle gay;
Yet still I love my native land—
  The Green Isle, far away.

The poplar quivers in the breeze,
  And by the blue lake's side.
The regal iris, tall and fair,
  Blooms in her native pride;
But I dream of the broad beeches' shade
  In glens beside Lough Neagh
And my longing thoughts go back to thee,
  O, Green Isle, far away!

Strange birds, in painted plumage gay,
  In hundreds haunt the grove;
O'er marsh and moor, the loon and heron,
  The coot and plover rove;
But I miss the lark's glad matin song,
  And the thrush and blackbird's lay,
The summer songsters, sweet and wild,
  In the Green Isle, far away.
Along the blue horizon line
  The "bluffs" rise 'gainst the sky,
But in dreams I see Old Erin's coast—
  Her mountains wild and high
Slieve Gallon, with his hoary head
  Gold-crowned at close of day,
When sunset lights the grand old hills
  In the Green Isle, far away.

There's beauty in the woodland wilds
  With their varied foliage fair,
But, cowering from the light of day,
  The grim wolf shelters there.
Ah! dear old woods, where I have roamed
  At eve of summer day,
No hidden dangers haunt your glades,
  In the Green Isle, far away.

The clear Assiniboine winds free
  Through many a fertile vale;
The antlered deer and graceful hind
  Bound o'er the wooded dale;
But I miss the quiet rural scenes—
  The farm-house, thatched and grey,
That memory fondly pictures now
  Of the Green Isle, far away.

The Sabbath morn its holy calm
  Breathes o'er the prairie lands,
And the answering heart hears Nature's psalm
  And the wild woods clap their hands.
But I long to hear the church bell's sound
  Tell to these wilds that day,
When thousands meet to praise and pray
  In the Green Isle far away.

Here life lays hold of brighter things
  For the fair years to be,
But the deathless Past and all her dreams,
  Old land, belong to thee!
The buried love, the buried hope
  Of youth's glad summer day,
That blend with unforgotten scenes
  Of the Green Isle, far away.

And while we love this pleasant land
  And own it good and fair,
Our hearts' first love goes backward
  And fondly lingers there—
Back to the dear home country,
  Then forward to that day
When all shall meet together,
  From the Green Isle pass'd away.

SONG.

"In the gloaming Oh, my darling."

Oh! green-bosomed Isle, as the summer day's gloaming,
  Lies dreamy and dun on the prairie's wild breast
There my worn, wayward heart o'er the wild waves is roaming
  Far, far to the scenes that are dearest and best.

As by bluff and by woodland, by swamp and by meadow,
  The gloom gathers round in its dim, mystic pall,
Then my fancies come forth, spirit-children of shadow,
  Slow gliding from haunts where the lone night-birds call....