ABBEY ASAROE

It looks beyond the harbour-stream

To Gulban mountain blue;

It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—

Atlantic breakers too;

High ships go sailing past it;

The sturdy clank of oars

Brings in the salmon-boat to haul

A net upon the shores;

And this way to his home-creek,

When the summer day is done,

Slow sculls the weary fisherman

Across the setting sun;

While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,

His cottage white below;

But gray at every season

Is Abbey Asaroe.

From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,

Tirconnell broad was theirs;

Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,

And holy abbot's prayers;

With chanting always in the house

Which they had builded high

To God and to Saint Bernard,—

Where at last they came to die.

At worst, no workhouse grave for him!

The ruins of his race

Shall rest among the ruin'd stones

Of this their saintly place.

The fond old man was weeping;

And tremulous and slow

Along the rough and crooked lane

H e crept from Asaroe.