On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
the soul of conversation is sympathy
Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save.