By J. J. M.*
two years have pass'd and gone
Though they like centuries appear
Since, sad, forlorn, and alone
I sail'd from Ireland dear
Yet though I ne'er may see it more
Can I forget my childhood's home
My own loved Hibernia's shore.
at my rancho door
Or when riding o'er the pampa plain
I silently long to hear once more
The sweet voices of her labouring Swain
Though the pampas may have fields
As fair and green all o'er
To me there is no soil that yields
Like my own Hibernia's shore.
to see my native groves
Where oft I've chased the bounding hare
And snar'd the woodcock and the doves
And listened to the cuckoo's voice so clear
Oh had I but an eagle's wings
Across the Atlantic I would soar
Nor would I think of earthly things
Till safe on Hibernia's shore.
I cope with Bards of vore
I'd proudly write in words sublime
The praises of her fertile shore
While life stands in her youthful prime
For when I'm sinking towards the tomb
And my feeble hand can trace no more
The words I'd like to write of that dear home
My owned lobed Hibernia's shore.
there are comforts beyond La Plata's mouth
Where the Indian once did freely roam
Still I'd forsake the pleasures of the South
For those of my own dear native home
Old Erin for thee this heart is weap'd in grief
A heart that's Irish to the core
Still shall I love the Shamrock Leaf
That grows on Hibernia's shore.
Monitor de la Campaña' N° 43 (Capilla del Señor,
15 April 1872).