| |
| FAR away from my friends, | |
| On the chill hills of Galway, | |
| My heart droops and bends, | |
| And my spirit pines alway,— | |
| ’T is as not when I roved | 5 |
| With the wild rakes of Mallow,— | |
| All is here unbeloved, | |
| And I sigh for Duhallow. | |
| |
| My sweetheart was cold, | |
| Or in sooth I ’d have wept her,— | 10 |
| Ah, that love should grow old | |
| And decline from his sceptre, | |
| While the heart’s feelings yet | |
| Seem so tender and callow! | |
| But I deeplier regret | 15 |
| My lost home in Duhallow! | |
| |
| My steed is no more, | |
| And my hounds roam unyelling; | |
| Grass waves at the door | |
| Of my dark-windowed dwelling. | 20 |
| Through sunshine and storm | |
| Corrach’s acres lie fallow; | |
| Would Heaven I were warm | |
| Once again in Duhallow! | |
| |
| In the blackness of night, | 25 |
| In the depth of disaster, | |
| My heart were more light | |
| Could I call myself master | |
| Of Corrach once more | |
| Than if here I might wallow | 30 |
| In gold thick as gore | |
| Far away from Duhallow! | |
| |
| I loved Italy’s show | |
| In the years of my greenness, | |
| Till I saw the deep woe, | 35 |
| The debasement, the meanness, | |
| That rot that bright land! | |
| I have since grown less shallow, | |
| And would now rather stand | |
| In a bog in Duhallow! | 40 |
| |
| This place I ’m in here, | |
| On the gray hills of Galway, | |
| I like for its cheer | |
| Well enough in a small way; | |
| But the men are all short, | 45 |
| And the women all sallow; | |
| Give M’Quillan his quart | |
| Of brown ale in Duhallow. | |
| |
| My sporting days o’er, | |
| And my love-days gone after, | 50 |
| Not earth could restore | |
| Me my old life and laughter. | |
| Burns now my breast’s flame | |
| Like a dim wick of tallow, | |
| Yet I love thee the same | 55 |
| As at twenty, Duhallow! | |
| |
| But my hopes, like my rhymes, | |
| Are consumed and expended; | |
| What ’s the use of old times | |
| When our time is now ended? | 60 |
| Drop the talk! Death will come | |
| For the debt that we all owe, | |
| And the grave is a home | |
| Quite as old as Duhallow! | |
| |
