The Irish Emigrant by the Countess of Gifford

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip Mary,
And the love light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The lark’s loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again!
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more may speak.

‘Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near;
The church where we were wed, Mary,
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step would break your rest,
For I’ve laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But oh! they love the better far,
The few our father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessing and my pride;
There’s nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

I’m bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary, kind and true!
But I’ll not forget you, darling,
In the land I’m going to!
They say there’s bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there;
But I’ll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair.

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