On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelagh was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And where ever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelagh to part,
She said, while the sorrow was big at her heart,
'Oh, remember your Sheelagh, when far, far away,
And be kind my dear Pat, to your poor dog Tray'.
Poor dog, he was faithful and kind to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor,
When sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where shall I go? Poor forsaken and blind,
Can I find one to guide me so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.
— Thomas Campbell (1777–1844)
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