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!