"But I'll ne'er forget old Ireland,were it fifty times as fair."

According to the grammar I learnt, the meaning of this sentence is "I'll never forget old Ireland, if it were fifty times as fair. However, I will forget it, because it is not fifty times as fair." Am I right?

Or does it mean "I will remember old Ireland that was fifty times as fair."?

Thanks

The seventh verse is: I'm biddin you a long farewell, My Mary - kind and true! But I'll not forget you darlin' In the land I'm goin' to. They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there - But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

Alice

Thank you very much for your explanation. I have an LP "The Voice of Erin" (Philips, London, late 1970's), in which Frank Patterson sings several Irish songs such as Slievenamon, Roísín Dubh and Kevin Barry, but he sings only two verses of The Irish Emigrant, and I had never known that there are 8 verses. Could you write all the lyrics in this thread, if possible?

With kindest regards

Teru

I, too, would love to have the verses to The Lament of the Irish Emigrant. I've never been to this board before and hope I can find my way back. Thanks!

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT
Lady Dufferin

I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' 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 is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.

'T is 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 graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest, -
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends;
But, O, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary,-
My blessin' 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 young strength was gone.
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow, -
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break, -
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore, -
O, I'm thankful that you're gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary - kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there, -
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again,
To the place where Mary lies.
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.

This sad story reminds me of the memoirs of my family who left Leitrim and came to the US. To quote my great-aunt Alice, in part, "...His grandfather, Peter Flynn, was the last of his family able to maintain himself during the chronic impoverishment of unhappy Ireland. In the case of his father, Lawrence Flynn, and that of my father, this impoverishment was increased by the extravagance of the landlord and his big family....Peter Flynn loved Ireland with all the passion of a patriot, but he saw the futility of revolt and found support in the warnings of their parish priest, 'Ireland has never gained anything through the shedding of blood.' -- words still only too true. Father went to Minnesota in 1880, crossing the Atlantic on the 'City of Limerick'. Mother said that he bid goodbye the night before and that he stole away before daybreak the next morning with many tears because he realized that he probably would never return to Ireland... We left Ireland two years later...Father asked mother to bring a blackthorn stick, but the one she selected was entirely too dainty for his taste..."
This has been a long message, hope I haven't "hogged" this space!!! Alice ^^

Thanks again

Regards-Teru

From the little bit of the story that you gave, it sounds to me like there must be a great song titled "The Blackthorn Stick" somewhere in you. I'd love to hear it sometime if it really does exist.

Allinkausay,
Bill

I don't remember much about Lady Dufferin except she lived on an estate outside Belfast (the name escapes me at the moment, Laoise if you're reading this it's on the corner of where the back road over the Craigantlet hills meets the Bangor dual carriageway opposite Dixon's garden centre, maybe you can help jog my memory.)

Anyway, she must have done something noteworthy, because there was a ward named after her in the old Belfast City Hospital.

Sorry it's all I can remember.

Slainte

alison

Best of all if you can do MIDI email the file as an attachment as Dick described here and tell us via this thread that you've done so.

Snail mail could work; email me at alan.foster@tpgi.com.au and I'll let you know my address.

Thanks,
Alan

cheers,
Alan

Wes hael,
Alan

Sparling’s "Irish Minstrelsy", published about 1888, gives "The Lament of the Irish Emigrant" in eight verses and the following biographical details of the author:

"Dufferin, Helena Selina Blackwood, Lady. Poetess Born 1807; died June 13, 1867. Granddaughters of R.B. Sheridan, she and her sisters, the Honourable Mrs. Norton and the Duchess of Somerset, worthily sustained the reputation of the family. Her ballads and poems were the genuine outcome of a deep and understanding love of the people, and secured for her their affection and esteem."

R.B. Sheridan would be Richard Brisnley Sheridan, the 18th century playwright.

Regards.

yellowpinkapotamus yachidagh boyo