LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

BY LADY DUFFERIN

The sweet pathos of this sadly-worded song has never been rivaled by any poem of exile ever written or sung, and it will always be just as touching to the homesick heart as now. The writer, Lady Dufferin, is the mother, and not the wife, as erroneously stated, of the former Governor-general of Canada. It was published originally in the year 1838, and was set to music and sung in every drawing-room in the United Kingdom, and became especially a favorite in America during the year of the Irish famine, 1848.

"M sittin' on the stile, Mary,

I'M

Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sung 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 is 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 listenin' for the words
You never more will 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 might 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 still
The few our Father sends;
And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessin' and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,

And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow,—
1 bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and sore,Oh, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,

Where grief can't reach you more!

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!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springin' corn and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE.

BY MRS. ETHEL LYNN BEERS.

The writer of this beautiful song was born in Goshen, Orange Co., N. J., in 1827, and was very popular as a contributor to the New York Ledger, Harper's Weekly, and other papers, under the pseudonym of Ethel Lynn, to which she added afterwards her married name. She died in 1879. The old slave-days are recalled with vivid earnestness by her stirring lines.

66

'M

Μ

OVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey,
In the sunshine bright and strong,
For this world is fading, Pompey-

Massa won't be with you long;
And I fain would hear the south wind
Bring once more the sound to me,
Of the wavelets softly breaking

On the shores of Tennessee.

"Mournful though the ripples murmur,

As they still the story tell,

How no vessel floats the banner
That I've loved so long and well;

I shall listen to their music,

Dreaming that again I see

Stars and Stripes on sloop and shallop,
Sailing up the Tennessee.

"And, Pompey, while Ole Massa's waiting For death's last dispatch to come, If that exiled starry banner

Should come sailing proudly home, You shall greet it, slave no longer, Voice and hand shall both be free, That shout and point to Union colors On the waves of Tennessee."

"Massa's berry kind to Pompey,
But ole darkey's happy here,
Where he's tended corn and cotton

For dese many a long gone year.
Over yonder Missis' sleeping,

No one tends her grave like me, Mebbe she would miss the flowers She used to love in Tennessee."

""Pears like she was watching Massa, If Pompey should beside him stay, Mebbe she'd remember better

How for him she used to pray, Telling him that way up yonder White as snow his soul would be,

If he served the Lord of Heaven

While he lived in Tennessee."

Silently the tears were rolling
Down the poor old dusky face,
As he stepped behind his master,
In his long accustomed place.
Then a silence fell around them,
As they gazed on rock and tree,
Pictured in the placid waters

Of the rolling Tennessee.

Master dreaming of the battle,

When he fought by Marion's side-
When he bid the haughty Tarlton
Stoop his lordly crest of pride;
Man, remembering how yon sleeper
Once he held upon his knee,
Ere she loved the gallant soldier,
Ralph Vervair of Tennessee.

Still the south wind fondly lingers
'Mid the veteran's silver hair;
Still the bondsman, close beside him,
Stands beside the old-arm chair,
With his dark-hued hand uplifted,
Shading eyes he bends to see
Where the woodland, boldly jutting,
Turns aside the Tennessee.

Thus he watches cloud-born shadows

Glide from tree to mountain crest,

Softly creeping, aye and ever,

To the river's yielding breast.