The Irish Emigrant. 1883.

"They sow in tears who reap in joy,"
Was truly said of old:
We wandered far, but round us still
Stretched God Almighty's fold.

'Twas He who led us forth; our grief
Discerned His chastening hand,
And saw not, though before our eyes
Shone bright His promised land.

O bless Him for the love that made
The parting greeting sore,
But for the bold heart that He gave
We bless our God yet more!

He gave us hope, He gave us strength;
For us His prairies smile,
The new world's untouched soils for us
Spread boundless, mile on mile.

The richest heritage on earth
For us His mercy saved;
For ages Nature's harvests here
Unknown, ungathered, waved.

Ours now the grain which decks the plains,
Ours all their wondrous yield;
Our children, and our kin possess
Their own, in house and field.

What wonder then if many laugh,
And wonder joy was dumb!
To friends in older lands with less
Our happy hearts say "Come."

John Campbell

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John Campbell

A National Hymn. - Government House, March 1880.

John Campbell, Simple Poetry

The Prairie Roses.

John Campbell, Simple Poetry

San Gabriel, On The Pacific Coast.

John Campbell, Simple Poetry

Loch Búy

John Campbell, Simple Poetry

English

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The Irish Emigrant. 1880.

Look not for me at eventide,
I cannot come when work is done;
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I'd yield for what they cannot give.

For who can turn away his face
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What country e'er can take the place
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I know not what they mean, mine eyes
Have never seen these frown on me.

To me these hills beside the wave
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A Protestant Irishman To His Wife.

"Just forty years to-day, my dear,
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All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
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A Sorrowful Lament For Ireland

The Irish poem I give this translation of was printed in the Revue Celtique some years ago, and lately in An Fior Clairseach na h-Eireann, where a note tells us it was taken from a manuscript in the Gottingen Library, and was written by an Irish priest, Shemus Cartan, who had taken orders in France; but its date is not given. I like it for its own beauty, and because its writer does not, as so many Irish writers have done, attribute the many griefs of Ireland only to 'the horsemen of the Gall,' but also to the faults and shortcomings to which the people of a country broken up by conquest are perhaps more liable than the people of a country that has kept its own settled rule.


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My thoughts, alas! are without strength;
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Seed-Time And Harvest

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie
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Who calls thy glorious service hard?
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A Poem Written In Time Of Trouble By An Irish Priest Who Had Taken Orders In France

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Misfortune has come upon us all together
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