Sixteen Poems | Page 2

sport among the waves;
To
gather shells on sandy beach,
and tempt the gloomy caves;
To
watch the flowing, ebbing tide,
the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young
men and maids to meet and smile,
and form a tender wish;
The sick
and old in search of health,
for all things have their turn--
And I
must quit my native shore,
and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade
from the Harbour to Belleek,
And
every pool where fins may rest,
and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping
fields, the lofty rocks,
where ash and holly grow,
The one split
yew-tree gazing
on the curving flood below;
The Lough, that winds
through islands
under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle
Caldwell's stretching woods,
with tranquil bays between;
And
Breesie Hill, and many a pond
among the heath and fern,--
For I
must say adieu--adieu
to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves
the live-long summer day;


The waters run by mossy cliff,
and banks with wild flowers gay;

The girls will bring their work and sing
beneath a twisted thorn,
Or
stray with sweethearts down the path
among the growing corn;

Along the river-side they go,
where I have often been,
Oh, never
shall I see again
the happy days I've seen!
A thousand chances are
to one
I never may return,--
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the
winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,
when merry neighbours meet,
And the
fiddle says to boys and girls,
'Get up and shake your feet!'
To
'seanachas' and wise old talk
of Erin's days gone by--
Who trench'd
the rath on such a hill,
and where the bones may lie
Of saint, or
king, or warrior chief;
with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties
sweetly sung
to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile

is now for me to learn--
Adieu, my dear companions
on the
winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down
to each end of the Purt,

Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,--
I wish no one any hurt;
The
Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,
the Mall, and Portnasun,
If
any foes of mine are there,
I pardon every one.
I hope that man and
womankind
will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy

at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind,
and often
fondly turn

To think of Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I'm a money'd man,
I mean, please God, to cast
My golden
anchor in the place
where youthful years were pass'd;
Though heads
that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
New
faces rise by every hearth,
and old ones drop away--
Yet dearer still
that Irish hill
than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home,
where'er I roam
through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord
allows me,
I surely will return
To my native Belashanny,
and the
winding banks of Erne.

ABBEY ASAROE
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,
by Belashanny town,
It has neither
door nor window,
the walls are broken down;
The carven-stones lie
scatter'd
in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that come

at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet
runs murmuring to the
tide,
Singing a song of ancient days,
in sorrow, not in pride;
The
boortree and the lightsome ash
across the portal grow,
And heaven
itself is now the roof
of Abbey Asaroe.
It looks beyond the harbour-stream
to Gulban mountain blue;
It
hears the voice of Erna's fall,--
Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go
sailing past it;
the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to
haul
a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek,
when
the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman
across the
setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,
his cottage
white below;
But gray at every season
is Abbey Asaroe.
There stood one day a poor old man
above its broken bridge;
He
heard no running rivulet,
he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn'd his
back on Sheegus Hill,
and view'd with misty sight
The Abbey walls,
the burial-ground
with crosses ghostly white;
Under a weary weight
of years
he bow'd upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time

the
former's epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like the walls,
a figure full of
woe,
This man was of the blood of them
who founded Asaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,
Tirconnell broad was theirs;

Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,
and holy abbot's prayers;

With chanting always in the house
which they had builded high
To
God and to Saint Bernard,--
where at last they came to die.
At worst,
no workhouse grave for him!
the ruins of his race
Shall rest among
the ruin'd stones
of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was
weeping;
and tremulous and slow
Along the rough and crooked
lane
he crept from Asaroe.

A DREAM
I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;
I went to the window to
see the sight;
All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and
two by two.
On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to
last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy
shadow again.
Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once--but now
more staid;
Those were the strangest sight to me
Who were drown'd,
I knew, in the awful sea.
Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;
Some that I loved,
and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;

Some that I had not known were dead.