That cross, the type of man's salvation,
Shall mark the spot through many an age,
The tomb of fondest veneration,
Where lies the patriot, saint, and sage!
Well may they bless his parted spirit,
The moral race of future times,
Rejoicing they no more inherit
Their country's bane, her woes and crimes.
Yes; those unborn, with pious feeling,
To whom his fame shall yet be known,
In solemn circle will be kneeling,
Young pilgrims round that hallow'd stone.
Each age his memory renewing,
As sweet and bright as spring's return,
Shall virtue's genius still be strewing
Undying bloom upon that urn,
Where lies the man whose fame ascended,
Like incense sacred, pure, sublime!
Whose name and deeds, though life be ended,
Shall live beyond the bounds of time!
ERIN—OUR OWN LITTLE ISLE.
I.
Oh! Irishmen! never forget—
'Tis a foreigner's farm—your own little isle;
Oh! Irishmen! when will you get
Some life in your hearts for your poor little isle?
Yes! yes!—we've a dear little spot of it!
Oh! yes!—a sweet little isle!
Yes! yes!—if Irishmen thought of it,
'Twould be a dear little, sweet little isle!
