KILLYNOOGAN by John Reade
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 spangled daisies o'er.
And the hedge,along whose side,
Oft, in childhood,I have tried
To escape, when playing "hide".
And the miniature wood,
Where in boyhood I have sued
Coyish maiden, Solitude.
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 murmers 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 it's fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.
Here I leave thee, little stream,
Lost, like much I dearest deem,
In my life's oft shifting dream.
Lost! but let me backward haste,
I have little time to waste
In my ramble through the past.
Words are cumbersome, at times,
Thought could visit fifty climes,
While I'm seeking useless rhymes.
I am back upon the lawn,
That I've often stood upon,
But - is every body gone?
Knock, - is anyone within?
Not a sound except the din
Of the mice, - they must be thin.
Look along the avenue,
Is there any one in view?
Surely, this can not be true?
Put your ear upon the ground!
Listen! Is there any sound?
Every thing is hushed around.
Oh! I dream! I might have known ;
I have wandered, - they are gone,
And of four remains but one.
Two were young and two were old;
Three are lying stark and cold
In death's rigid, icy fold.
Dear old Killynoogan,thee,
Once so full of life and glee,
Lifeless, desolate, I see!
But,beloved and sacred spot,
Nought of thee shall be forgot,
Till what I am now - is not.
by John B. Cunningham