. . .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—
[6] 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, Colleg. . . Read More