She is far from the Land
Words by Thomas Moore
Music by Frank Lambert
Sung by James Bierney
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"She is far from the Land", originally appeared in Volume 4 of the Irish poet Thomas Moore’s, 'Moore’s Irish Melodies', which was published in eight volumes between 1808 and 1834. The words were set to an old Irish air named 'Open the door’. In 1897, Frank Lambert, who was one of the most successful ballad composers, wrote this lovely song.
Moore’s lyric was inspired by Robert Emmet, the Irish patriot who was hanged after leading an uprising in Dublin in 1803, and his fiancée, Sarah Curran, who subsequently died in 1808.
Sarah Curran was born in Newmarket, County Cork, and brought up at The Priory, Rathfarnham. She met Robert Emmet through her brother Richard, a fellow student at Trinity College, Dublin. However, her father considered Emmet an unsuitable husband, and their courtship was largely conducted through letters and clandestine meetings. There is a letter from Robert to Sarah proving that they became secretly engaged in 1803.
In Cork, after Emmet's death, Curran met Captain Henry Sturgeon, a nephew of the Marquis of Rockingham, and married him (November 1805). The two lived in Sicily, where Sturgeon was posted; she had a child, John, who died at the age of one month, after a difficult birth which took place at sea. Sarah Sturgeon died of tuberculosis on 5 May 1808 at the age of twenty-six.
Thomas Moore was inspired by her story to write the popular ballads, "She is far from the Land" and "Oh, breathe not his name!" and the long poem Lalla Rookh.
Washington Irving, one of America's greatest early writers, devoted "The Broken Heart" in his “Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.” to the romance between Robert Emmet and Sarah Curran, citing it as an example of how a broken heart can be fatal.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking;
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his Love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.
- Thomas Moore