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Poem by John Frazer The Bog of Clondallagh ARE the orchards of Scurragh With apples still bending? Are the wheat-ridge and furrow On Cappaghneale blending? Let them bend,—let them blend! Be they fruitful or fallow, A far dearer old friend Is the bog of Clondallagh! Fair Birr of the fountains, Thy forest and river And miniature mountains Seemed round me forever; But they cast from the past No home memories, to hallow My heart to the last,— Like the bog of Clondallagh! How sweet was my dreaming By Brosna’s bright water, While it dashed away, seeming A mountain’s young daughter! Yet to roam with its foam, By the deep reach, or shallow, Made but brighter at home The turf fires from Clondallagh! If, whole days of a childhood More mournful than merry, I sought through the wildwood Young bird or ripe berry, Some odd sprite or quaint knight, Some Sindbad or Abdallah, Was my chase by the light Of bog fir from Clondallagh! There the wild duck and plover Have felt me a prowler On their thin rushy cover, More fatal than fowler; And regret sways me yet For the crash on the callow, When the matched hurlers met On the plains of Clondallagh! Yea, simply to measure The moss with a soundless Quick step was a pleasure Strange, stirring, and boundless; For its spring seemed to fling Up my foot, and to hallow My spirit with wing, O’er the sward of Clondallagh! But alas! in the season Of blossoming gladness, May be strewed over reason Rank seeds of vain sadness! While a wild, wayward child, With my young heart all callow, It was warmed and beguiled By dear Jane of Clondallagh! On the form with her seated, No urchin dare press on My place, while she cheated Me into my lesson! But soon came a fond claim From a lover to hallow His hearth with a dame— In my Jane of Clondallagh! When the altar had risen, From Jane to divide me, I seemed in a prison, Though she still was beside me; And I knew more the true From the love false or shallow, The farther I flew From that bride and Clondallagh! From the toils of the city My fancy long bore me, To sue her to pity The fate she brought o’er me! And the dream, wood and stream, The green fields, and the fallow, Still return, like a beam, From dear Jane of Clondallagh! John Frazer John Frazer's other poems: 1215 Views |
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