Though An Angel Should Write,

Though The Last Glimpse Of Erin With Sorrow I See, Yet Wherever Thou Art Shall Seem Erin To Me; In Exile Thy Bosom Shall Still Be My Home, And Thine Eyes Make My Climate Wherever We Roam.

This Wretched Brain Gave Way, And I Became A Wreck At Random Driven, Without One Glimpse Of Reason Or Heaven.

Disguise Our Bondage As We Will, 'tis Woman, Woman, Rules Us Still.

Earth Has No Sorrow That Heaven Cannot Heal.

It Is Only Through Mystery And Madness That The Soul Is Revealed.