Dartry Poetry
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The Land League - Brigid McGowan
Melvin Waters - Annie McGowan
The Mission - Anonymous
Church of Ballymore - Anonymous
Lough Melvin - Peter Magennis
To Lough Melvin - Brigid Connolly
A Day in the Bog - Katie A. Fox
The Dobharcú - Anonymous
The Melvin Gaels - Anonymous

 

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The Land League

This poem was composed by Brigid McGowan, Kinlough (1856 - 1938), concerning a Land League meeting in Ahanlish.

Come all ye brave true Irishmen,
And listen to my song.
I don't intend, I promise you
To keep you very long.
It's all about this glorious Land League
I mean to let you hear
A branch of which the other day
Was finally planted here.

Outside the town of sweet Kinlough
A field they did select;
And here in their thousands
The people did collect.
Their forms so neat, 'twas quite a treat
To see them step the green;
With their caps and sashes trimmed so neat
With the orange and the green.

From far away they came that day
Regardless of the storm,
With their caps and sashes trimmed so neat
All dressed in uniform.
The Dartry boys, they led the band
As they often did before
Their leaders being two brave young men
From fair Lough Melvin's shore.

The first appeared upon the scene
'Twas the men from sweet Glenade
When joined by the Glenaniff boys
Where the mountain dew is made.
All ye cruel landlords
Ye don't deserve a hate
When thousands of young Irish girls
Are forced to emigrate.

Now to conclude and finish
It grieves my heart full sore
To think of those brave Dartry boys
Around Lough Melvin's shore
It's now they're dead and gone to rest
We will never see them more;
But their names will live in history
Around Lough Melvin's shore
Melvin Waters Blue

This song was composed about 1870 by Annie McGowan, daughter of John McGowan, teacher in Edenville N.S. Annie emigrated to England, where she lived until her death in 1929. Her nearest living relatives are the Gallaghers of Mullinaleck.

Farewell to Melvin's tranquil shore
Where often I have strayed,
In pensive thought o'er brae and brake
Or sauntered in the shade;
And strove my best in joyous mood
To catch the trout and eel,
I know when far in distant lands
How lonely I will feel.
No more I'll tread the verdant path
No more I'll see or hear
The thrush in groves beyond the lake
Pour forth its notes so clear,
And fondly gaze on each dear scene,
The scenes that well I knew
For I must say farewell to all
Round Melvin Waters blue.

How pleasant on a Summer day
On Carraig Raghallaigh fair
To sit and chat of days gone by
And breathe the pleasant air.
Or view the housetops of Kinlough
Shine out among the trees
St. Aidan's spire to crown the scene
Defiant of the breeze;
Or view Bundoran far below -
The Brighton of the North -
Where strangers go to breathe the air
Where zephyrs fan the healthful strand
So pleasing to the view;
Home scenes so dear I will revere
And Melvins waters blue.

From point of Ross to Inniskeen
The scenes of joyous days,
Where youth and health were seen to sport
In Summer sun's bright rays.
The people here round Melvin dear
So little seek to know
The grief an exile's heart must feel
When forced from it to go.
From Rosclogher's ruined castle
To Mount Prospect's fair demesne
From Dartry hills with verdure crowned
To every smiling plain;
From Glenade's mist-clad mountains
To all I ever knew
I now must say farewell to all
Round Melvin waters blue.

How lovely on a sunny day
To walk Rossinver braes,
And view the scenes that lie beneath
So well deserving praise.
And view Fermanagh's noble hills
That were in days of yore
The home of many a manly heart
When tyrants trod our shore.
But now there's scarce an infant left
Of all to tell the tale
They joined the Irish exile band
Far, far from Inishfail;
They went across the ocean wave
Strange pathways to pursue
They left their native plains behind
Round Melvin waters blue.

Go sailing down by Laureen House,
You'll catch a sweet perfume
Of many a fresh and fragrant flower
Well kept, and rich in bloom.
While, standing on the wooden bridge
As in a spellbound tie
You will forget all other scenes
But those beneath your eye.
Go further down the stream and see
The eel weir, old and grey
To which the Drowes takes its course
From Laureen's sheltered bay;
And view those groves of Irish palm,
The ash and oak tree too;
Alas! I say farewell to all
Round Melvin waters blue.

The thrush will sing the whole day long
Upon the rowan tree
But I won't hear that oft' heard song
For I'll be far from thee.
And once, for all, I'll say good-bye
To friends and comrades gay,
In hopes to meet again through time
Then gladly will I stay
And tread again those dear old scenes,
That must forever reign
Supreme in every exile's heart
Far from his native plain.
And when I do return again
Old joys we will renew
We'll dance and sing the whole day long
Round Melvin waters blue.
The Mission

This (anonymous) poem was written about the controversy that arose over the Kinlough Mission of 1865.  Those involved were William Johnston,  landlord of Oakfield and Mr. William Ashe,  rector of Rossinver parish on the one side, and Fr. John Maguire on the other.  The learned tone of the poem probably narrowed the list of suspected authors considerably.  The poem was printed in the Sligo Champion, and scornfully reprinted by the Ballyshannon Herald.

Come Satan's muse, resume thy lash
And scourge the Rev. Parson Ashe
Whom nothing else can e'er abash
Or make polite.
And Billy Johnston also thrash;
It serves them right.

To light those bigot reptiles drag
Poor witlings who have nought to brag
Nor spare the Ballyshannon rag
Of fading green.
Who would the Jesuit fathers gag
And chase I we'en.
Our Missioners to Kinlough came
To teach their own, and who shall blame?
Yet Parson Ashe lights up a flame
Of bigot hate.
And Billy Johnston does the same
With brazen hate.

While these men toleration preach
Behold their arts and what they teach
They are beyond the power of speech
To well describe.
E'en Satan's self is loath to reach
So low a tribe.
The bigots tremble, fear and quake
If humble priests a journey make
And not for controversy sake
Nor yet to lure
But the Bread of Life to break
To Christ's own poor.
 
And yet, their mission those malign
Impute to them a base design
And doctrine which would men consign
To deepest hell.
But hate and interest both combine
Such lies to tell.
 
Those raving bigots may assail
And bark like curs - it won't avail
For truth is great and must prevail
On error's spite.
The Jesuit fathers will not fail
To spread its light.
And who would stoop when such "invite"
To join them in polemic fight?
Not that the Ashen spear could fright
But Ah! 'twere vain.
And who would look for gospel light
In Johnston's brain?
 
To tough these sprigs of Orange Billy
The Mountain Ashe and Weeping Willie
Were foolish - nay, were worse than silly
The muse allows.
Or tear the faded Orange Lily
From off their brows.
Altho' they long for petty brawls
Where hatred as a serpent crawls
May God release their mortal souls
From error dark.
And make them see, by His sweet calls
Salvation's Ark.

The Little Whitewashed Church of Ballymore

This song was taken down in New York from Pat Owen McGowan of Laughta by Edward Clinton of Unshinnagh. Pat Owen emigrated about 1840 at the age of 16.  The author is unknown.


I have knelt in great cathedrals
With their wondrous naves and aisles,
Where airy arches twine and interlace;
Where the sunlight on its paintings
Like a ray of glory smiles
And their shadows seem to sanctify the place.
 
Where the organ's tones, like echoes
From an angels chanting toll
Wafted down with seraph wings from heaven's shore.
They are mighty and majestic
Yet they cannot touch my soul
Like the little whitewashed church of Ballymore.
 
Just a little modest chapel,
Half embowered in the trees,
And the roof above the worshippers is low;
While the earth bears traces sometimes
Of the congregation's knees
As they themselves are bent in toil and woe.
 
Medieval St. Peter's,
By the foot of monarchs trod,
With its ornamental genius and its lore,
Never knew in its magnificence
More trustful prayers to God
As ascended to His throne from Ballymore.
 
Their splendour has inspired me,
Amidst them all I prayed
God to grant me when life's weary days are o'er
Sweet rest beside my mother
In the clear enchanting shade
Of the little whitewashed church of Ballymore.

Lough Melvin

This poem was included in an anthology of poetry published by Peter Magennis in 1887.


Hail Melvin! bright and lovely lake beneath the lofty mountains,
What wild emotions dost thou wake within my spirit's fountains!
I list the murmurs on thy strand, I feel thy bosom heaving -
A spirit from the ocean grand sublime o'er thee is breathing.
 
I view these vales, and hills, and skies; I stand in admiration;
Historic scenes on memory rise in bright association:
I see the men of other days advancing solemn, slowly,
The chief with sword, the bard with lays, the saint with shrine the holy.
 
My fancy sees McClancy's men adown the vale descending
To meet O'Rourke in battle when their chief and homes defending;
Their warrior weapons gleam and glance, their war-cry breatheth slaughter;
They shout until the echoes dance along the trembling water.
 
I see old Ballagh's chief, with bard, and hall with feast abounding,
And men for song and dance prepared, or battle-cry resounding.
I view the maids of bosoms white who win their soft caresses,
Their blushing cheeks and looks of light, their gold or raven tresses.
 
They rise, the hosts of other years, the men of old Clan Connell,
On Melvin's shore, with shining spears, in train of great O'Donnell.
They pass beside Rossinver's stream one festive night of glory,
Then march away with morning's beam, and give the rest to story.
 
Upon this shore stood Partolan, in Saimer when abiding -
Perhaps was raised the pillar-stone unto the god presiding.
Here temples rose and idols fell; in islands green and pealing
Was listened of the sabbath-bell; while hosts to heaven were kneeling.
 
In smiling vale of silver streams (the ruins still respected)
Saint Moeg's holy abbey gleams, by angel hands erected,
While on the vale Aurora's light the radiant morn is bringing,
I see the nuns in vestal white, the monks their matins singing.
 
These visions vanish as they rise; but yet on eagle pinion
The muse transports me near the skies to Sheon's wide dominion.
Long time she reigns on Dartry's crown, near neighbour to "McClancy",
And sends her smiles or frownings down upon the rural fancy.
 
The falling streams, the pendant vales, white cottages and meadows,
The breaking waves, the breathing gales, the moving clouds and shadows,
The mansions on the distant shore, the shades, the isles, the bowers,
Delight e'en in the winter hoar, enchant in sunny hours.
 
On Melvin's banks 'tis sweet to rove when moon and stars are shining,
Or feel the bosom beat in love when golden day's declining,
Or view those lights of hope and joy - the dreams of life's young morning,
When rosy beams the mountain high and valleys are adorning.
 
On Melvin's banks, in smiling spring, the air with love is laden,
The flowers bloom, the songsters sing, and gay are youth and maiden;
In crystal streams the fishes glide, or play amid the fountains;
In beauty blooms the landscape wide, in glory gleam the mountains.
 
O! for a day on Melvin blue, in gliding boat to angle,
And salmon, trout, and gilaroo, with gilded fly entangle,
Or sail among the verdant isles of trees their shadows flinging,
Or bask in morning's radiant smiles, or woo the zephyrs winging.
 
Upon this scene has Beauty smil'd, O lake expansive splendid!
The lovely mingles with the wild, the grand and bright are blended;
While o'er thy waves Enchantment flings a light that fadeth never,
May peace expand her halcyon wings around thy shores for ever!

Ode to Lough Melvin

The author of this poem, Brigid Rose Connolly, lives in the townland of Parke.  She is well known for her writings, and has published many poems, and an anthology entitled "My Memories".  Her son Stephen is on the staff of our school.


As by your tranquil shore I strayed
As the golden sun sank in the west,
I watched your peaceful flowing tide
Your little ripplets beat the crest.
There, sailing on your waters blue,
The snow white swan with dripping wings
Adds beauty to your magic shore,
Enchantment to your lovely scenes.
 
Around your balmy, sun-kissed shore
The little birds sang forth in song,
And from the trees across the lake
Re-echo notes in chanting throng.
The Dartry mountains, high above,
As if to guard your onward glide
With shadows long and wide, embrace
The splendour of the Melvin side.
 
There. lofty trees, as phantoms lone,
Within your bosom gently grow
To form islands that allure
Your lovely peaceful water-flow;
Where ruins of Rosclogher bring
Tradition onwards to our view
To tell a tale of former days,
United with Lough Melvin blue.
 
Oh beauteous lake, beyond compare,
The angler hails thee nature's queen;
From far-off lands they come to fish
And view your tranquil shore serene.
As down below, endearing all,
You onward flow in brilliant hue,
Surpassing scenes of nature's gifts
In peace reposes Melvin blue.

Only a Day in the Bog

A native of Unshinnagh, Katie Ann Fox worked for the Butler family in Dublin, and published a number of anthologies, including "Poems by a Working Girl", "Further Poems by a Working Girl" and "The Mass Rock and Other Poems".  This poem is taken from "Poems by a Working Girl",  published in 1944.


Only a day in the bog
Ringed round by brown heathery hills,
With the blackbird's clear song overhead
Where a little brook ripples and thrills;
With the peat thrown around on the banks,
And a clamp lying black here and there,
Where clusters of white canawaun
Wave their heads in the pure balmy air.
 
There the men sit enjoying their tea
Round a fire that flickers and gleams,
Their laughter is borne on the air
Not a care in the world, so it seems;
While others are cutting the turf
That will keep little hands from being cold
When chairs are drawn up round the hearth
And tales round the bright fires are told.
Only a day in the bog,
Yet it floats in through memory's stream,
 
And wakes up strange longings in me;
But these longings must e'er be a dream,
For I'm far from the Curragh Bawn,
And the broad oceans roll between,
Ah! my truant heart must find rest
Far, far from the Island of green.

The Dobharcú

A legend in Glenade concerns the emergence of a monster from Glenade lake which killed the new wife of a man called McGloughlan. Mcgloughlan slew the monster, but its mate came from the deep and pursued McGloughlan and his brother from the valley towards Sligo. Halfway to Sligo, on Cashelgarron Hill, the second monster was dispatched. The McGloughlan grave, marked with a large horizontal stone, is in Conwell cemetery in Glenade. The writing on the grave slab has been obliterated by time, but a carving of a strange monster can still be discerned. The following local poem recounts the tale of the monster in graphic detail:


By Glenade lake tradition tells, two hundred years ago
A thrilling scene enacted was, to which as years unflow,
Old men and women still relate, and while relating dread,
Some demon of its kind may yet be found within its bed.
 
It happened one McGloughlan lived close by the neighbouring shore,
A lovely spot, where fairies oft in rivalry wandered o'er,
A beauteous dell where prince and chief oft met in rivalry,
With Frenchmen bold and warriors old to hunt the wild boar, free.
 
He and his wife Grace Connolly lived there unknown to fame,
There, years in peace, until one day from out the lakes there came
What brought a change in all their home and prospects too.
The water fiend, the enchanted being, the dreaded Dobharchú.
 
It was a bright September morn, the sun scarce mountain high,
No chill or damp was in the air all nature seemed to vie,
As if to render homage proud the cloudless sky above
A day for mortals to discourse in luxury and love.
 
And whilst this gorgeous way of life in beauty did abound,
From out the vastness of the lake stole out the water hound,
And seized for victim her who shared McGloughlan's bed and board,
His loving wife, his more than life, whom almost he adored.
 
She having gone to bathe it seems within the waters clear,
And not having returned when she might, her husband fraught with fear,
Hasting to where he her might find, when on, to his surprise,
Her mangled form, still bleeding warm, lay stretched before his eyes.
 
Upon her bosom, snow white once, but now besmeared with gore,
The Dobharchú reposing was, his surfeiting being o'er.
Her bowels and entrails all around tinged with a reddish hue.
"Oh God", he cried. "tis hard to bear but what am I do do".
 
He prayed for strength, the fiend lay still, he tottered like a child,
The surge of life within his veins surged rapidly and wild.
One long last glance at her he loved, then fast his footsteps turned,
To home, while all his pent up rage and passion fiercely burned.
 
He reached his house, he grasped his gun which clenched with nerves of steel,
He backwards sped, upraising his arm find then one piercing squeal
Was heard upon the balmy air. But hark, what's that that came,
One moment next from out of its depth as if revenge to claim.
 
The comrade of the dying fiend with whistles long and loud,
Came nigh and nigher to the spot. Mr. McGloughlan growing cowed,
Rushed to his home, his neighbours called their council, asked
And flight was what they bid him do at once, and not to wait 'till night.
 
He and his brother a sturdy pair as brothers true when tried,
Their horses took, their homes foresook and westward fast they did ride,
One dagger sharp and long, each man had for protection too
Fast pursued by that fierce brute the Whistling Dobharchu.
 
The rocks and dells rang with its yells, the eagles screamed in dread.
The ploughman left his horses alone, the fishes too 'tis said,'
Away from the mountain streams though far, went rushing to the sea.
And nature's laws did almost pause for death or victory.
 
For twenty miles the gallant steeds, the riders proudly bore,
With sadness strain o'er hill and dale that ne'er was seen before,
The fiend, fast closing on their tracks, his dreaded cry more shrill,
'Twas brothers try, we'll do or die at Castlegarden Hill.
 
Dismounting from their panting steeds they placed them one by one,
Athwart the path in lengthways formed, within the ancient wall,
And standing by the outmost horse awaiting for their foe,
Their daggers raised, their nerves they braced to strike that fatal blow.
 
Not long to wait, for nose on trail, the scenting hound arrives,
And through the horse with a plunge to force himself he tries,
And just as through the outmost horse his head and foremost part,
McGloughlan's dagger to the hilt lay buried in his heart.
 
Thank God, Thank God, the brothers cried in wildness and delight,
Our humble home by Glenade lake shall shelter us to-night,
Be any doubt to what I write, go visit old Conwell,
And see the grave where sleeps the brave whose epitaph can tell.

The Melvin Gaels

This poem was written by an anonymous local poet  to immortalise the victory of the Melvin Gaels in the County Championship of 1959.  Words courtesy of  Margaret McGloin, Abbeylands, Ballyshannon.

When the brown winds of Connaught are blowing,
And  Autumn leaves dance in the sun;
Then  each Melvin Gaels heart is bounding,
The Championship it has been won.

The candles were lit in St. Aiden's
And  prayers were sent up in the flame,
That the old Gaelic saints around Melvin
Would guide us to victory again.

Through all the bright summer we triumphed
From we first kicked a ball in the spring;
'Til we vanquished in old Ballintrillick
The best that North Sligo could bring.

When we met Aughawillan we rallied
The boys quickly came to the call;
From fire and from camp and from schoolhouse,
From glenside and far study hall.

From the four green fields came supporters,
All confident we would not fail;
And the resonant accents of Munster
Rang out with "Come on Melvin Gaels".

McGowan, McGloin, Connolly, Gilmartin
Were all to the fore on that day;
And the Gallaghers, Jackie and Aidan
And Patsy, were fit for the fray.

McGurran, McMahon, O'Malley,
The Kellys to no man did yield,
And with Michael McGloin there to lead us
Petie Foley sped over the field.

Now our hopes, as we look to the future
Remembered, those names long may be;
Where the Duff rolls along by Ahanlish,
And the Drowes sweeps down to the sea.