A history of the Clanna-Rory, or Rudricians; to which is added a paper on the authorship of the "Exile of Erin" by a septuagenarian

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Goodwin, son, and Nethercott, 1864
 

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Стр. 131 - There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill : For his country he sighed when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate...
Стр. 131 - Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing : Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest Isle of the Ocean : And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavournin ! * Erin go bragh !
Стр. 131 - Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild- woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh...
Стр. 131 - Erin my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase me?
Стр. 67 - Jove endued with every grace ; The glory of the Granard race ; Now destined by the powers divine The blessing of another line. Then, would you paint a matchless dame, Whom you'd consign to endless fame? Invoke not Cytherea's aid, Nor borrow from the blue-eyed maid; Nor need you on the Graces call ; Take qualities from Donegal*. FROM
Стр. 132 - She milked the dun cow that ne'er offered to stir ; Though wicked to all it was gentle to her — So kind was my Kathleen, my poor little Kathleen, My Kathleen O'More ! She sat at the door one cold afternoon, To hear the wind blow and to gaze...
Стр. 131 - Oh, sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine...
Стр. 131 - Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood ? Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
Стр. 134 - twas Mary le More. Her charms by the keen blasts of sorrow were faded, Yet the soft tinge of beauty still...
Стр. 39 - Torlogh's grave each hope that cheer'd me lies. " Oh ! ye blest spirits dwelling with your God, Hymning his praise as ages roll along Receive my Torlogh in your bright abode And bid him aid you in your sacred song.

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