Thomas Moore, from Irish Melodies, vol. 7
As slow our ship her foamy track|
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
2. When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
3. And when, in other climes, we meet|
Some isle, or vale enhanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
4. As travellers oft look back at eve,
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