Sweet Sorrow

In all my life I'll not forget the night
When Ireland drifted slowly out of sight
The packet steamer rolling on its way
As if it were an ordinary day
Instead of one which ravaged a poor heart
And almost cleaved his soul from frame apart.
It must have been a purgatory specially planned,
That day when I left Ireland.

For my heart ne'er stopped its heaving,
And has never ceased its grieving
Since the day when I was leaving
Old Erin's pleasant isle.

By John Patrick Finigan (1st of four verses)