The Exile to her Father

Me fayther, ye blessed ould chap!
   Do ye think o' yer Mary at whiles?
C'ud I tak yer dear head on me lap
   I'd soon win the light o' yor smiles!
But since I have only the word, 
   And no the tight grip of a fist, 
Me luve in this song shall be heard, 
   And meself, I shall nor be so miss'd.

I have come to where no man is lord, 
   I have found me a home in the West, 
Where labor may win its reward, 
   And honesty fares wi' the best.
But I cannot forget, though I roam
    To the furthermost ends of the earth,
The dear ould fayther at home
    In the swate Green Isle of me birth.

This land is a beautiful land, 
   And freedom and plinty are here, 
Its mountains and rivers are grand,
   But och! it's the ould home that's dear!
Where the fayther we luve's left behind, 
    And the drayrie salt sea is atween;
But all the lang day he's in mind, 
    In that home where the shamrock is green.

Och, darlint ould man, through me tears
   I look wi' a sigh and a smile, 
Far off to that home, and the years 
   I lived in the bonny Green Isle:
And though I may niver return
   To soothe the dear head growing gray,
I drame of it while the stars burn,
   ‘Tis me heart that is there ivery day!

Dear fayther! I think o' ye more
   As one afther ither departs,
And the childer gone out o' yer door
   Can only return in their hearts.
But sure though we lave ye we luve, 
   And though we ne'er come at yer call, 
Ould darlint! we'll mate ye abuve,
   It will nor be lang afther all!