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Rh 

On the green banks of Shannon, when Summer was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my faithful dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was watchful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my faithful dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he lick'd me for kindness, my faithful 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 play'd a lament for my faithful dog Tray. 