Mr. Toohey, the Editor of the “Shamrock,” New York, lately offered the Shamrock for the next three years, free of postage, as a premium to the author of the best song suitable to the ensuing an anniversary of Saint Patrick, the patron saint of the “Emerald Isle.” The second and third best in the same proportion. It was with no small degree of pleasure that I found the annexed, in the Shamrock of the 15th ultimo, first in order. It is the production of the friend and companion of my early days. His aversion to tyranny and love of liberty induced him to emigrate to the land of Washington, and leave his injured, persecuted and oppressed country, in the hope that a brighter sun may yet illume her political horizon ; that the shackles of depotism, which bind and enslave her, shall soon burst, and the day not far distant when the epitaph of her Emmet may be written. His genius and talents and patriotism are as bright and strong and pure as his fancy is rich and glowing. Knowing that few, in this section of the country, take the Shamrock, I send you a transcript of the song, that you may give it a place in the “Free Press,” convinced that it will be gratifying to many of your readers, who are personally acquainted with the author.
FIRST PRIZE SONG.
BY CHARLES BYRNE, ESQ. OF BALTIMORE.
Air, “Burns’ Farewell.”
Oh! who that has not wander’d far
From where he first drew vital air,
Can tell how bright the visions are
That still surround our fancy there?
And it is sweet ’round mem’ry’s throne,
When time and distance gild the way,
To cite the scenes that long have flown;
And view them o’er on Patrick’s day!
Tho’ distant from our native shore,
And bound by fortune’s stern decree,
To tread our native soil no more;
Still, Erin, we must think on thee.
Is there a heart of Irish mould,
That does not own the magic sway,
Which prompts the gen’rous patriot’s soul,
To celebrate our Patrick’s day?
No nation e’er at freedom’s shrine,
Has sacrificed so rich as we;
Our blood has flow’d in every clime
That raised the shout of liberty.
But ah! will freedom never smile,
Nor shed one bright and cheering ray,
To light our own dear native Isle,
And cheer our hopes on Patrick’s day.
Yes, Erin, raise thy drooping brow,
And wreathe it with thy Shamrock green;
Go tell thy proud and haughty foe,
That she’s no longer “Ocean’s Queen.”
Columbia’s banner floats on high,
Her eagle seizes on his prey;
Then, Erin, wipe thy tearful eye,
And raise thy hopes on Patrick’s day.
Thy gallant sons have nobly bought,
Columbia’s gratitude for thee;
In freedom’s cause they’ve bravely fought,
And shed their blood for liberty.
Then strike the harp and fill the bowl,
Let tyrants grumble as they may,
The toast we’ll drink is “Albion’s fall”—
And Erin’s joy on Patrick’s Day.
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