Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Stranger

Pity the fate of a poor stranger,
That wanders so far his home,
That sighs for from want, woe, and danger,
knows not from which way for to roam.
Yet I'll never to Hibernia's green bowers,
For tyranny tramples the of flowers,
That gave me comfort in loneliest hours
Now they are gone I shall ne'er see more.

With wonder I on yon lofty building,
As in I rose from its lord,
But soon I my fair garden yielding
The of fruit for his foe.
But, where is my father's lone of clay,
Wherein I' ve spent a long day,
Alas ! has his lordship it away ?
Yes, it is gone, I never see it more.

When was seen in the sloe bush and bramble,
All in beautiful bloom,
Over the fields danger, I often
Did ramble amidst perfume ;
I have wranged through the woods the gay feather'd

Joyfully their loud echoing song
These days then of summer sweetly along,
Now they're goneI shall ne'er see more !

When the sloe and the berries hung on the bushes
I have gathered off without harm
I have to the field and shorn the green rushes,
Preparing for winter's cold !
Along my friends telling tales of delight,
Beguiling the hours of the long night,
Those days gave me could them invite ;
Now they're gone, I ne'er see them more.

Oh, Erin ! oh, ! it grieves me to ponder
The wrongs of thy isle !
Of thy may a thousand from home do wander
On shores far away an !
But me the power to cross the main,
Calumbia yield me some shelter from pain,
I am only lamenting whilst I remain,
For the I shall ne'er see again.