Poems of Donegal

My Old Thatched Cottage

Take me back to my old thatched cottage
In far off Donegal
Where the thrushes sing in the evening
Beside the waterfall

I'm tired of the noise of the city
I long for the peace of the plow
Where the sea gulls circle above me
As I wipe the sweat from my brow

I long for the sounds of the horses
The cows coming down from the hills
The bleat of the lambs in the springtime
The song of the lark, how it thrills

I want to go back to the heather
The roses that cling round the door
To the hawthorn, the primrose, and daisies
To my childhood again as of yore

Take me back to my dear old mother
In far off Donegal
Where the thrushes sing in the evening
Beside the waterfall

Drumlongfield Poem

Drumlongfield, fairest of Drumholm's fair hills, serenely looking down on verdant vales where ivy mantled walls and gables grey have stood the test of time, and winter's gales. St. Ernan prayed around that hallowed spot where bones of countless dead lie mouldering still. Deserted now, it seems, and weed growth too. When viewed form this grand height - the Surgeon's Hill, three little loughs lie glistening in the sun.

Our gaze is now turned south, entranced the more. The white road winding by up to Drumholm brae to pleasant homes where hedges shade each door. The Bay lies there beyond from Coolmore's rocks to wooden banks afar at Ballyweel. Belles Isle from oe'r the warren in foliage deep. St Ernan's groves, inviting too, we feel. And, land locked, as the eye keeps roving round, the flowing tide creeps up to the Mullinasole. The Murvagh woods and mansion rise between and by the Carrick hills the wavelets roll. Blue mountains frown behind - there's Barnes Gap in story famed for highwaymen of yore. Finmore, the Ocht, and purple Minchifin, like sentinels guard the rolling plains much. St. Brigid's grey against Lismonton's hills looks down the valley where a streamlet flows. At Ballintra, the square churchtower and tree-topped Largy in the background shows White houses - aye, and ones of sombre hue, lit up by sunshine from the azure west. A sunken spot along the river holm, the village struggles hard to look its best. O'er Ballinacarrick's brown rocks Breecy peeops in lordly bulk, a landmark far and near. Tis but a hop it seems to Lurgan cavin. Here mirrored in the reed fringed lough so clear. And Glasbolie's green fields so fresh besides. The ancient "forth" just seen round Dromore hill, where fourteen centuries are like a dream. Since Ireland's kings ruled here with pride and skill. Such is the scene that spreads before the eye. We fain would linger here the livelong day, caressed by Summer breezes as they waft up whin-strewn slopes, the scent of well-saved hay.