John Reade

Killynoogan

KILLYNOOGAN,—hallowed name,—
Though thou ’rt little known to fame,
My heart’s homage thou dost claim.

Though to stranger ears thou be
But a word of mystery,
Meaning deep thou hast for me.

All thy quaint old masonry
Now before my eyes I see,
As of old it used to be.

Ah! too well I can recall
Every stone in every wall,—
In my heart I count them all.

And the lawn before the door,
I can see it as of yore,
Bright with daisies spangled o’er.

*        *        *        *        *

And the garden full of flowers,
Where I ’ve past romantic hours,
Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.

In the orchard, stretched at ease
On the grass, I hear the breeze
Piping ’mong the apple-trees.

While from many a leafy nook,
Grave as parson at his book,
Rook replieth unto rook.

I can hear the river’s flow
As it murmurs, soft and low,
Bringing news from Pettigo.

I can watch it to the mill,
Where the never-tiring wheel
Dances round and drinks its fill.

Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”
Past the castle of Magra,
Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,

On it goes with many a turn,
Playing with its fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.