Poems
I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin’ long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin’ fresh and green,And the lark sang loud and high--And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more will speak.
’Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near,The church where we were wed, Mary,I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest--For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.
I’m very lonely now, Mary,For the poor make no new friends,But, O, they love the better still,The few our Father sends!And you were all _I_ had, Mary,My blessin’ and my pride:There’s nothin’ left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm’s young strength was gone:There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow--I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there,And you hid it, for my sake!I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore--O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!
I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,My Mary--kind and true!But I’ll not forget you, darling!In the land I’m goin’ to;They say there’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there--But I’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woodsI’ll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side:And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.
Words in this poem
- stile n.
- A pin set on the face of a dial, to cast a shadow; a style. See Style. Moxon. [See Style.]
- yonder adv.
- At a distance, but within view. [OE. yonder, ýonder; cf. OD. ginder, Goth. jaindr there. Yond, adv.]
- graveyard n.
- A yard or inclosure for the interment of the dead; a cemetery.
- thank n.
- A expression of gratitude; an acknowledgment expressive of a sense of favor or kindness received; obligation, claim, or desert, or gratitude; -- now generally used in the plural. [AS. Þanc, Þonc, thanks, favor, thought; akin to OS. thank favor, pleasure, thanks, D. & G. dank thanks, Icel. Þ\'94kk, Dan. tak, Sw. tack, Goth. Þagks thanks; -]
- thankful a.
- Obtaining or deserving thanks; thankworthy. [AS. Þancfull.]
- morn n.
- The first part of the day; the morning; -- used chiefly in poetry. [OE. morwen, morgen, AS. morgen; akin to D. morgen, OS. morgan, G. morgen, Icel. morginn, morgunn, Sw. morgon, Dan. morgen, Goth. maúrgins. Cf. Morrow, Morning.]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Poems is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Oxford Book of English Verse, 1250-1900, Project Gutenberg ebook #66619; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Helen Selina, Lady Dufferin, Poems, (1807–1867), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #66619, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/obev-helen-selina-lady-dufferin/lament-of-the-irish-emigrant.html, id L16212.
Form and metre
Lament of the Irish Emigrant is 64 lines in 8 stanzas of 8 lines each. The metre is iambic tetrameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 83%). 96% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 7.5 syllables. 11 lines end on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 9% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic tetrameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 AB-B-CAC maryA · sideB · ago · brideB · green · highC · maryA · eyeC
- 2 -A-A-B-B mary · thenA · ear · againA · hand · cheekB · words · speakB
- 3 -ABABC-C lane · nearA · maryB · hereA · maryB · restC · sleep · breastC
- 4 AB-BAC-C maryA · friendsB · still · sendsB · maryA · prideC · now · diedC
- 5 -A-A-B-B mary · onA · soul · goneA · lip · browB · same · nowB
- 6 -A-A-B-B smile · breakA · there · sakeA · word · soreB · mary · moreB
- 7 -A-A-B-B farewell · trueA · darling · toA · all · thereB · ireland · fairB
- 8 -A-A-B-B woods · eyesA · again · liesA · stile · sideB · morn · brideB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic tetrameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary, | 8 | ·/˘···/˘ |
| Where we sat side by side | 6 | ······ |
| On a bright May mornin’ long ago, | 9 | ·······˘/ |
| When first you were my bride; | 6 | ······ |
| The corn was springin’ fresh and green, | 8 | ········ |
| And the lark sang loud and high-- | 7 | ······· |
| And the red was on your lip, Mary, | 9 | ·······/˘ |
| And the love-light in your eye. | 7 | ······· |
| The place is little changed, Mary, | 8 | ···/˘·/˘ |
| The day is bright as then, | 6 | ······ |
| The lark’s loud song is in my ear, | 8 | ········ |
| And the corn is green again; | 7 | ·····˘/ |
| But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, | 9 | ········· |
| And your breath warm on my cheek, | 7 | ······· |
| And I still keep list’ning for the words | 9 | ········· |
| You never more will speak. | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| ’Tis but a step down yonder lane, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| And the little church stands near, | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| The church where we were wed, Mary, | 8 | ······/˘ |
| I see the spire from here. | 6 | ······ |
| But the graveyard lies between, Mary, | 9 | ··/····/˘ |
| And my step might break your rest-- | 7 | ······· |
| For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep, | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| With your baby on your breast. | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| I’m very lonely now, Mary, | 8 | ·/˘/˘·/˘ |
| For the poor make no new friends, | 7 | ······· |
| But, O, they love the better still, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| The few our Father sends! | 7 | ··/˘/˘· |
| And you were all _I_ had, Mary, | 8 | ······/˘ |
| My blessin’ and my pride: | 6 | ······ |
| There’s nothin’ left to care for now, | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| Since my poor Mary died. | 6 | ···/˘· |
| Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, | 8 | ······/˘ |
| That still kept hoping on, | 6 | ···/˘· |
| When the trust in God had left my soul, | 9 | ········· |
| And my arm’s young strength was gone: | 7 | ······· |
| There was comfort ever on your lip, | 9 | ··/˘/˘··· |
| And the kind look on your brow-- | 7 | ······· |
| I bless you, Mary, for that same, | 8 | ···/˘··· |
| Though you cannot hear me now. | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| I thank you for the patient smile | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| When your heart was fit to break, | 7 | ······· |
| When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, | 9 | ··/˘····· |
| And you hid it, for my sake! | 7 | ······· |
| I bless you for the pleasant word, | 8 | ·····/˘· |
| When your heart was sad and sore-- | 7 | ······· |
| O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, | 9 | ··/˘···/˘ |
| Where grief can’t reach you more! | 6 | ······ |
| I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, | 8 | ·······/ |
| My Mary--kind and true! | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| But I’ll not forget you, darling! | 8 | ···˘/·/˘ |
| In the land I’m goin’ to; | 7 | ····/˘· |
| They say there’s bread and work for all, | 8 | ········ |
| And the sun shines always there-- | 7 | ····/·· |
| But I’ll not forget old Ireland, | 9 | ···˘/·/˘˘ |
| Were it fifty times as fair! | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| And often in those grand old woods | 8 | ·/˘····· |
| I’ll sit, and shut my eyes, | 6 | ······ |
| And my heart will travel back again | 9 | ····/˘·˘/ |
| To the place where Mary lies; | 7 | ····/˘· |
| And I’ll think I see the little stile | 9 | ······/˘· |
| Where we sat side by side: | 6 | ······ |
| And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, | 10 | ·········· |
| When first you were my bride. | 6 | ······ |
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