Original Poetry, for the Tipp Free Press. Written by the Nenagh Minstrel. The Wandering Exile. 1 In his bosom a wandering exile, dear Erin, With devotion inshrines all that to thee belong, The bright gliding Shannon still sighs in his hearing, With the tones of thy harp and the strains of thy song. In fancy he roams o'er the wood covered mountains, And wanders thy green winding vallies among, And hangs o'er the gush of they murmering fountain, O'er which in his boyhood so fondly he hung. 2. Though fate unrelenting now dooms him a ranger, The rememberance of thee is alive in his breast, Indignation he wakes in the soul of the stranger, With the dirge of thy wrongs and thy children oppressed. He wins with the strains of his harp to respect thee, The nations beyond the Atlantic's broad deep, And tho' from the oppressor he cannot protect thee, Thy wrongs recollections he'll never let sleep. Mary