Poem by Helen Selina Blackwood

The Irish Emigrant

I’m sitting on the stile, Mary,
	Where we sat side by side,
On a bright May morning long ago,
	When first you were my bride.
The corn was springing fresh and green,
	And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
	And the love light in your eye. 
 	
The place is little changed, Mary,
	The day as bright as then; –
The lark’s loud song is in mine ear,
	And the corn is green again,
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
	And the breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
	You never more may speak.
 
’Tis but a step down yonder lane,
	And the little church stands near;
The church where we were wed Mary, –
	I see the spire from here,
But the grave-yard lies between, Mary. –
	And my steps might break your rest.
For I’ve laid you, darling, down to rest,
	With your baby on your breast.
 
I’m very lonely now, Mary,
	For the poor make no new friend;
But, oh! they love the better far,
	The few our father sends,
And you was all I had Mary, –
	My blessing and my pride,
There’s nothing left to care for, now,
	Since my poor Mary died.
 
Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
	That still kept hoping on;
When the trust in God had left my soul,
	And my arm’s strong strength had gone.
There was comfort on your lip Mary,
	And the kind look on your brow;
I thank you Mary, for the same –
	Though you cannot hear me now,
 
I thank you for the patient smile,
	When your heart was like to break 
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
	And you hid it for my sake.
I bless you for the pleasant word,
	When your heart was sad and sore;
Oh! I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,
	Where grief can’t reach you more!
 
I’m bidding you a long farewell,
	My Mary kind and true;
But I’ll not forget you, darling,
	In the land I’m going to.
They say there’s bread and work for all,
	And the sun shines always there;
But I’ll ne’er forget Old Ireland,
	Were it fifty times as fair.

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