(To the old Irish air of “Bidh mid a gol sa poga na mban.”)
Green hills of the west, where I carolled along
In the Mayday of life with my harp and my song,
Though the winter of time o’er my spirit hath rolled,
And the breast of the minstrel is weary and cold;
Though no more by those famous old haunts shall I stray,
Once the themes of my song, and the guides of my way,
That each had its story, and true-hearted friend,
Before I forget ye, life’s journey shall end!
Oh, ’twas joy in the prime of life’s morning to go
On the tracks of Clan Connell, led on by Hugh Roe,
O’er the hill of Keiscorran, renowned Ballimote,
By the Boyle, or by Newport, all passes of note,
Where the foe their vain armaments haughtily kept;
But the foot of th’ avenger went by while they slept:
The hills told no tale, but the night-cloud was red,
And the friends of the Sassenagh quaked at their tread.
By the plains of Rath Croghan, fields famous of yore,
Though stronghold and seat of the kingly no more,
By Tulsk and Tomona, hill, valley, and plain,
To grey Ballintubber, O’Connors’ domain;
While ages rolled backwards in lengthened array,
In song and old story, the long summer day;
And cloud-like the glories of Connaught rolled by,
Till they sank in the horrors of grim Athenry!
Through the heaths of Kiltullagh, kind, simple, though rude,
To Aeluin’s bright waters, where Willesborough stood,
Ballinlough then spoke welcome from many a door,
Where smiles lit kind faces that now smile no more;
Then away to the Moyne, o’er the moors of Mayo,
Still onward, still welcomed by high and by low,
Blake, Burke, and O’Malley, Lynch, Kirwan, and Browne,
By forest, lake, mountain, through village and town.
Then kind were the voices that greeted my way,
’Twas _Cead mille failte_ at closing of day,
When young hearts beat lightly, and labour was done,
For joy tracked my steps, as light follows the sun;
I had tales for the hamlet, and news for the hall,
And the tune of old times, ever welcome to all,
The praise of thy glory, dear land of the west;
But thy praises are still, and thy kind bosoms rest!
My blessing rest with you, dear friends, though no more
Shall the poor and the weary rejoice at your door;
Though like stars to your homes I have seen you depart,
Still ye live, O ye live in each vein of my heart.
Still the light of your looks on my darkness is thrown,
Still your voices breathe round me when weary and lone;
Like shades ye come back with each feeling old strain,
But the world shall ne’er look on your equals again.
* * * * *
The difference between a rich man and a poor man is this--the former eats
when he pleases, the latter when he can get it.--_Sir W. Raleigh._