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There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recollect them still.

I leave my warm heart with you, though my back I'm forced to turn,
So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall:
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
Cast off! cast off!-she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;
Now stem and stern keep hawling, and gathering up the clue,
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew,

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Then they may sit, and have their joke, and set their pipes to burn;
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill'd harbor is full from side to side-
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,
From the little rocky island to Coolnargit sandhills gray,
While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue, gaze calmly over all;
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;-
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar;
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to Carrigan, with its ocean mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep:

From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;-
Head out to sea, when on your lee the breakers you discern,
Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!

Farewell, Coolmore, ― Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th' Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves:
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish:
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn,
And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!

Farewell to every white cascade, from the harbor to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek:

The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow;
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;

The Lough that winds through islands, under Turaw Mountain green;
The Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern,
For I must say adieu- adieu to the winding banks of Erne!

The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day,
The water run by mossy cliff, and bank with wild-flowers gay:
The girls will bring their work, and sing beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among the growing corn:
Along the river-side they go, where I had often been;-

Oh! never shall I see again the days that I have seen,

A thousand chances are to one I never may return,

Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,
From the Red Barn to the Abbey, I wish no one any hurt;

Search through the streets, and down the Mall, and out to Portnasun,
If any foes of mine be there, I pardon every one.

I hope that man and woman kind will do the same by me,

For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea;

My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn,

To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbors meet,

And the fiddle says to boys and girls, "Get up and shake your feet;
To Shanachus and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by,-
Who trenched the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie.
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,

And tender ditties sweetly sung, to pass the twilight hour;

The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn;
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!

If ever I'm a moneyed man, I mean, please God, to cast

'My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were passed,

Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray;

New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away,

Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside

It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide;

And, if the Lord allows me, I surely will return

To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne.


[Miss Rosa Mulholland was born at Belfast, and is the daughter of Dr. Joseph S. Mulholland of that city. After her father's death she spent several years in a mountainous part of the west of Ireland, and the picturesque scenery and primitive people by whom she was surrounded doubtless did a good deal towards developing literary longings. Miss Mulholland has written " Dunmara," 'Eldergowan," "The Little Flower Seekers," ," "Prince and Saviour," "The First Christmas for our Dear Little Ones," "Puck and Blossom," " Five Little Farmers," "Vagrant Verses," and a large number of short stories and poems in All the Year Round and other magazines.]


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THE Lord, who fashioned my hands for working,

Set me a task, and it is not done;

I tried and tried since the early morning,

And now to westward sinketh the sun!

Noble the task that was kindly given
To one so little and weak as I
Somehow my strength could never
grasp it,

Never, as days and years went by.

Others around me, cheerfully toiling, Showed me their work as they passed


Filled were their hands to overflowing, Proud were their hearts, and glad and gay.

Laden with harvest spoils they entered In at the golden gate of their rest; Laid their sheaves at the feet of the Master,

Found their places among the blest.

Happy be they who strove to help me, Failing ever in spite of their aid! Fain would their love have borne me onward,

But I was unready and sore afraid.

Now I know my task will never be finished,

And when the Master calleth my name The Voice will find me still at my labor, Weeping beside it in weary shame.

With empty hands I shall rise to meet Him,

And, when He looks for the fruits of


Nothing have I to lay before Him
But broken efforts and bitter tears.

Yet when He calls I fain would hastenMine eyes are dim and their light is


And I am as weary as though I carried A burthen of beautiful work well done.

I will fold my empty hands on my bosom, Meekly thus in the shape of His Cross; And the Lord who made them frail and feeble

Maybe will pity their strife and loss.


THIS is the convent where they tend the sick,

Comfort the dying, make the ailing


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