One night, while peaceful in my bed I lay, unwitting what befell, By Morpheus' arms clasped close,
"Just forty years to-day, my dear, We sail'd from Irish waters, And bade farewell, with many a tear,
I hear the wintry wind again, I see the blinding snow, Pil'd high, by eddying winds, in heaps,
Old father Time, his cruel scythe Has swung full oft around, Since last the merry Christmas, bells
Deep planted in the heart of man, Wherever you may go, Display hath fertile seeds, which sprout,
A man is not what oft he seems, On this terrestrial sphere, No pow'r to wield, no honor'd place,
Keep pure the thoughts within thy mind, For they to actions turn, Which succor want, or pity woe,
God of the harvest, once again Our joyful tones we raise, For all Thy goodness, day by day,
With patient toil, from day to day, The printed page he scann'd, The page of learned book, or sheet
The land of poetry and mirth, Of orators and statesmen, too, To one more genial, ne'er gave birth,
The youthful joys of vanish'd years, The joys e'en now we share, Have something of a sacred bliss,
OH brothers, friends, down by the sea, We can thy voices hear, And painful is their tone, and free,