As I Rode by Granard Moat Read Online Free PDF Page B

Toomeyvara, Tempo and Strabane.
    On the Southern Llanos-north, where strange light gleams,
    Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams.
    Dying voices murmur, past all pain and care:
    ‘Lo! the little villages, God has heard our prayer.’
    Lisdoonvarna, Lisadell, Lisdargan, Lisnaskea,
    Portglenone, Portarlington. Portumna, Portmagee,
    Clonegall and Clonegowan, Cloondara and Clonae,
    God bless the little villages and guard them night and day.
    There’s more. But even the most eloquent and energetic elocutionist might rest content with that much for his partypiece – a portion of an alphabet of Ireland – and so might his audience.
    I can close my eyes and hear, in my garrison home town, the pipes of the British Army playing long lines of unfortunate soldiers to the railway station on their way to Europe in 1940. The tune went with William Allingham’s ‘The Winding Banks of Erne’. How many of those fellows had ever heard of or seen Belashanny? How many of them ever came back?
    Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born;
    Go where I may I’ll think of you, as sure as night and morn;
    The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
    And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;
    There’s not a house or window, there’s not a field or hill,
    But east or west, in foreign lands, I’ll recollect them still;
    I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I’m forced to turn –
    So adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!
    No more on pleasant evenings we’ll saunter down the Mall,
    When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.
    The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
    Cast off, cast off – she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;
    Now fore and aft keep hauling and gathering up the clew,
    Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.
    Then they may sit with pipes alit, and many a joke and yarn. –
    Adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!
    The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
    When all the green-hilled harbour is full from side to side,
    From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,
    From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills grey;
    While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,
    The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all,
    And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern; –
    Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!
    Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and all that pull an oar,
    A lugsail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
    From Killybegs to bold Slieve League, that ocean-mountain steep,
    Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep;
    From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,
    Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;
    Head out to sea, when on your lee the breakers you discern! –
    Adieu to all the billowy coast and winding banks of Erne!
    Farewell, Coolmore – Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run
    From inland to see with joy th’Atlantic-setting sun;
    To breathe the buoyant salted air, and 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