An Irishman's Toast

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Copyright, 1882, by F. Harding. Published by permission

An Irishman’s Toast.

Don’t call me weak-minded, perchance I should sing
Of the dearest old spot upon earth;
And don’t think me foolish should memory bring
To my mind the dear land of my birth;
With its hills and its valleys, its mountains and vales,
Of which our forefathers would boast,
Of a dear little island all covered with green—
Ah! But list’ and I’ll give you an Irishman’s toast:

My mind’s eye oft pictures my old cabin home,
Where it stood by the murmuring rill,
Where my playmates and I oft together did roam,
Through the castle that stood on the hill;
But the stout hand of time has destroyed the old cot,
And the farm now lies barren and bare;
Around the old porch there is ivy entwined,
But the birds seem to warble this toast in the air:

The church and the school-house have long been replaced;
In the Harp Hotel dwells a new host;
The white-haired old veteran has long been at rest,
And his wife has deserted her post;
King Death, the stern reaper, has called them away,
And their children have gone o’er the seas;
There is nothing but strangers around the old spot,
Still this toast seems to waft to my ears on the breeze:

H. J. Wehman, Song Publisher, 50 Chatham St., New York.

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