Tho' round her Indian bow'rs
The hand of nature show'rs
The brightest-blooming flow'rs
Of our sphere;
Yet not the richest rose
In an alien clime that blows,
Like the brier at home that grows,
Is dear.
Tho' glowing breasts may be
In soft vales beyond the sea,
Yet ever Gra ma ċree
Shall I wail;
For the heart of love I leave,
In the dreary hours of eve,
On thy stormy shore to grieve,
Innisfail!
But mem'ry o'er the deep
On her dewy wing shall sweep,
When in midnight hours I weep
O'er thy wrongs;
And bring me, steep'd in tears,
The dead flow'rs of other years,
And waft unto my ears
Home's songs.
When I slumber in the gloom
Of a nameless foreign tomb,
By a distant ocean's boom,
Innisfail!
Around thy em'rald shore
May the clasping sea adore,
And each wave in thunder roar,
"All hail!"
