Classic Poem

Poor Erin's daughter cross'd the main
In youth's unfolding prime,
A lot of servitude to bear
In this our western clime.

And when the drear heart-sickness came
Beneath a stranger sky,
Tears on her nightly pillow lay,
But morning saw them dry.

For still with earnest hope she strove
Her distant home to cheer,
And from her parents lift the load
Of poverty severe.

To them with liberal hand she sent
Her all — her hard-earn'd store —
A rapture thrilling through her soul,
She ne'er had felt before.

E'en mid her quiet slumbers gleam'd
A cabin's lighted pane,
A board with simple plenty crown'd,
A loved and loving train.

And so her life of earnest toil
With secret joy was blest,
For the sweet warmth of filial love
Made sunshine in her breast.

But bitter tidings o'er the wave
With fearful echo sped;
Gaunt famine o'er her home had strode,
And all were with the dead!

All gone! — her brothers in their glee,
Her sisters young and fair;
And Erin's daughter bow'd her down
In desolate despair.