Pro Patria.

Shure I've found a blissed counthry, an' I'm happy I was
born,
For there's meadows crammed wid cattle, and the
cattle crammed wid corn,
An' there's pockets full o'money, an' help for all forlorn
—But—m' heart is moithered sore for Ballyhony.

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Faix! there's cabbage trees above me, and the emerald flax
below;
An' the trees are sweatin' blossoms ye'd niver think could
grow;
'Tis the land o' "Drames Come Thrue," machree, but ivery
drame may go,
Just to pluck a shamrock leaf in Ballyhony.

The moighty mountins thrill me as they circle round the
bay,
Wid their pearly-misted pinions for to mark the dyin' day.
But there's speak o' golder glory, and there's mists o' softer
gray,
On the Sperrin' tops o' dewy Ballyhony.

Och! the laugh is in the eye iv me, but the tear is in the
soul,
M' heart 'twill break wid longin' as the years they onward roll.
Bless Patrick an' his angles! an' whin I cross the goal,
Heaven grant that it may be in Ballyhony.