Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Stranger

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

With I gazed on yon lofty building,
As in grandeur I rose its lord,
But I beheld my fair garden yielding
The choicest of for his foe.
But, where is my father's lone of clay,
Wherein I' ve many a long day,
Alas ! has his conniv'd it away ?
Yes, it is gone, I shall see it more.

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

Joyfully sung their loud echoing
These days of summer passed sweetly along,
Now they're shall ne'er see them more !

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

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