Джеймс Кларенс Манган (James Clarence Mangan)

Duhallow

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
  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,—
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
  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.
Through sunshine and storm
  Corrach’s acres lie fallow;
Would Heaven I were warm
  Once again in Duhallow!

In the blackness of night,
  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
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,
  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!

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,
  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,
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
  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?
Drop the talk! Death will come
  For the debt that we all owe,
And the grave is a home
  Quite as old as Duhallow!

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