Фрэнсис Сильвестр Махони (Francis Sylvester Mahony (Father Prout))

The Bells of Shandon

WITH deep affection
And recollection,
I often think of
  The Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would
In days of childhood
Fling round my cradle
  Their magic spells.
On this I ponder,
Where’er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
  Sweet Cork, of thee;
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
  Of the river Lee.

I ’ve heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in,
  Cathedral shrine,
While at a glib rate
Brass tongues would vibrate;
But all their music
  Spoke naught like thine;
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of thy belfry, knelling
  Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
  Of the river Lee.

I ’ve heard bells tolling
Old Adrian’s Mole in,
Their thunder rolling
  From the Vatican;
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
  Of Notre Dame:
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o’er the Tiber,
  Pealing solemnly.
O, the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
  Of the river Lee!

There ’s a bell in Moscow;
While on tower and kiosk O
In St. Sophia
  The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summits
  Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there ’s an anthem
  More dear to me,—
’T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
  Of the river Lee.

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