Daily National Intelligencer

FOR THE NATIONAL INTELLIGENCER.
TO THE IRISH EMIGRANT.

Turn hither, thou wand'rer, forlorn and opprest,
Thou shalt find thine own home, in the land of the West—
Thou shalt find the warm welcome and heart-cheering smile,
That thou left in thy cot on the gen'rous Isle

We've no titles, or ribbons, or stars, to bestow,
Nor a "Fountain of Honor" from which they can flow;
No legitimate Lords, born to rule o'er our nation;
But Man, as he is, the great Lord of Creation.

Yet we've Honor for those who've Virtue to claim,
And Genius is free to our Temple of Fame.
And so oft as our banners o'er Victory wave,
We've laurels to twine round the brows of the brave.

Then come, thou poor pilgrim, for here thou shalt find
No tyrants to break the proud march of the mind.
Thy temples and altars, in peace thou mayst rear,
For the pray'rs of the heart shall find ut'rance here.

Do'st thou linger to stretch a last look o'er the sea,
T'ward that Island, no longer a Country for thee?
And even while greeting our shores with a smile,
Do'st thou breathe a last pray'r for the Em'rald Isle?

Oh! my country! if such is the steady devotion
Which clings round the heart, at the distance of Ocean,
With what fervor of love shall we gather 'round Thee—
Since the Land of our Birth is the home of the FREE!