As I read his words, I understood the hearts in America that still yearn for Ireland – whether they have stepped on its green grass or not. The heart belongs, and still has a home in Ireland. Generations have come and gone, but there remains a deep-longing and attachment for a land far away.
Time and distance have not severed the connection.
To read the words of someone who wrote freelyof the pain of severed families, without the shame of hidden emotion, highlights the connection that still exists between Ireland and the USA today.
Today, we live in a world that is rapidly shrinking. The whole notion of travel has been revolutionised in a hundred years.We can move house to another region, state or country, but still maintain our links to the old.
The perception of homesickness has changed massively with the advances in technology. People move locations, still driven by poverty and necessity, in search of better prospects, yet can still feel displaced and depressed.
Before technology, without facebook, mobile phones or skype, families faced the reality that when they were separated by an ocean, they may never see their loved ones again. John wrote this poem in an era when the emotions of homesickness and nostalgia were openly discussed, and not seen simply as impediment to personal progress and prosperity.
He reminds his reader of what home truly is…a place of belonging, of childhood memories, and the heart connection that survives through time and distance.
John’s words echo through time, to tell the tale of true loss.
Bewailing the Exiles
We are sitting here in silence, but our thoughts are far away,
We are musing o’er the exiles on this lonely Christmas Day;
No joyous word to cheer us, we are sitting here alone,
They are far away from us today and the dear old Irish home.
And the years have sped so quickly since that lovely morn in May,
When the flowers were in the hedgerows and blossoms on each spray;
Have they found such ardent lovers since they left us here alone,
As those they left behind them in the dear old Irish home?
And the letters come to cheer us but instead they make us mourn,
We read between the lines and see they mean to ne’er return;
And the years keep speeding past us and still we hope and pray
They’ll cross the main to us again to spend a Christmas Day.
But time and tide won’t for us bide, the years are on us now,
The loitering step, hair changed to white, the furrows on the brow;
The debt of Nature nearly paid and still we fondly pray,
With fervent grasp, those hands to clasp, before we pass away.
Oh, no! not all those hands we’ll clasp, for some are gone to rest,
They sleep far from their native land, strange soil upon their breast,
We will not weep for those that sleep, ‘tis better far to pray,
I seem to see them plain as day in that land so far away.
The brothers, more than brothers now, that word to them so dear,
And mother, oh! that blessed word, will ne’er again see her;
And father, strong, and full of life that day they went away,
Behold him hobbling on a stick, behold his locks of gray.
And visions rise before their eyes, they see us, oh so plain,
And in their sleeping hours oft are back with us again;
‘Mong haunts of early childhood, at games they used to play,
With comrades of their schooldays before they went away.
But no, they’re far from Ireland, the ocean rolls between,
The Stars and Stripes above them, they wake, and all’s a dream;
But scenes of early childhood, asleep, at work or play,
Will always haunt those exiles from the old home far away.