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,
That knows not which way for to roam.
Yet I'll never return to Hibernia's bowers,
For tyranny the sweetest of flowers,
That gave me comfort in loneliest hours
Now they are I shall ne'er see them more.

With wonder I gazed on yon building,
As in grandeur I rose its lord,
But soon I beheld my fair garden
The choicest of for his foe.
But, where is my lone cottage of clay,
Wherein I' ve spent a long day,
! has his lordship conniv'd it away ?
Yes, it is gone, I never see it more.

When nature was seen in the sloe and bramble,
All smiling in bloom,
Over the without danger, I often
Did amidst their perfume ;
I have wranged through the woods the gay feather'd

Joyfully sung their echoing song
These days then of summer passed along,
Now they're goneI ne'er see them more !

When the sloe and the hung ripe on the bushes
I have gathered them off without
I have to the field and shorn the green rushes,
Preparing for winter's storm !
Along with my telling tales of delight,
Beguiling the of the long winter's night,
Those days me pleasureI could them invite ;
Now they're gone, I shall see them more.

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