The Fair Hills of Ireland

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer,

Uileacán dubh O!

Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear;

Uileacán dubh O!

There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fanned; There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand,

On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curled he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee,

Uileacán dubh O!

Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish sea;

Uileacán dubh O!

And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high

command,

For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground,

Uileacán dubh O!

The butter and the cream do wonderously abound,

Uileacán dubh O!

The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand,
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music bland

And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests

grand,

On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

See Note Page 350.

Translated by SAMUEL FERGUSON.

The Winding Banks of Erne

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

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 a-lit, 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-hill'd 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 them 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 dis

cern

Adieu to all the billowy coast and the winding banks of of Erne!

Farewell, Coolmore, Bundoran! and your summer crowds that

run

From inland homes to see with joy the 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 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 riverside they go, where I have often been—
O, never shall I see again the days that I have seen!
A thousand chances are to one I never may return-
Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, where merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, "get up and shake your feet!"