Luyện nghe bài hát The Irish Stranger

Pity the of a poor Irish 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 tramples the sweetest of flowers,
That once gave me comfort in hours
Now are gone I shall ne'er see them more.

With wonder I on yon lofty building,
As in I rose from its lord,
But soon I beheld my fair 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 nature was in the sloe bush and bramble,
All smiling in bloom,
Over the fields without danger, I
Did amidst their perfume ;
I have wranged through the woods where the gay

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

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

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