Mavourneen! Shule Asthore!

Mavourneen! Shule Asthore!

------------------------

’TIS silent midnight as I sit alone, in sad dejection,

And ’fore my mind the shadows flit of somber recollection;

The sunny Moy and boyhood’s days, the Abbey, old and hoary,

Whose turrets tall and winding ways, bring back its ancient glory.

The green hill top, the sparkling brook, St. Muredach’s stately spire—

Fit subjects for the poet’s book, or music’s dulcent lyre!;

Where Bunree’s woods and meadows fair, and Downhill’s sheen aglore

Bring back fond memories of my south, Mavoureen! Shule, asthore!

As wandering through this mighty land I think on Erin’s beauty,

And how her sons, with head and hand, have the patriot’s duty;

I pray for better days to shine on that sweet emerald shore,

When parting tears, on sorrow’s shrine, will our eyes no more.

When loved ones, clasped unto our breasts, will feel the gladsome thrill,

And each sad heart contented rests, secure from ever ill;

Then Erin bright, my sweet  old home, my father’s land, once more

       I’ll lay me on thy emerald breast, Mavourneen! Shule, asthore! 

                                                                 W.R.A.                   New York, 3rd January, 1895.