  I sit beside my darling's grave, Who in the prison died, And tho' my tears fall thick and fast, I think of him with pride:— Ay, softly fall my tears like dew, For one to God and Ireland true. 'I love my God o'er all,' he said, 'And then I love my land, And next I love my Lily sweet, Who pledged me her white hand:— To each—to all—I'm ever true, To God—to Ireland and to you.' No tender nurse his hard bed smoothed Or softly raised his head:— He fell asleep and woke in heaven Ere I knew he was dead;— Yet why should I my darling rue? He was to God and Ireland true. O, 'tis a glorious memory; To sit beside my hero's grave And think on what has been:— And O, my darling, I am true To God—to Ireland and to you! Ellen O'Leary |
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