Classic Poem

I've a letter from Erin this bright Christmas day,
Which my old mother sends to me over the sea;
'Tis a message of love from the friends far away,
A gift of all others most welcome to me.
Wonder not at my tears, for these pages were penned
In the cot where, a baby, I rolled on the floor,
And what dearer token than this could she send—
This sprig of green shamrock from old Erin's shore?

“Merry Christmas,” she writes, “to the boy of my pride,
And I hope this will reach him at no other time.
Oh, the oceans are deep and the oceans are wide,
And the mountains between us are rugged to climb,
But a mother's affection is wide as the earth,
And lasts till the heart that it thrills is no more;
So I send you my love from the home of your birth
And a sprig of green shamrock from old Erin's shore.”

Dear old Irish mother, so tender and kind!
I'll be true to my God, to myself and to you.
And what lack of manhood or grace can you find
When a boy to his mother is faithful and true?
Yes, I'll wear in my bosom this letter of mine;
I will treasure this gift from the land I adore,
For the heart of a mother is love's purest shrine,
And the shamrock grows fairest in Erin Asthore!