As I Rode by Granard Moat (5 page)

Ballina, Ballinrobe, Baal and Bohola,

Newport, and Foxford a few miles below.

Then on to Inishteague and down to Manulla,

You’ll always find true friends in the County Mayo …

The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish Glyns,

Down among the wheat-fields, up among the whins,

The little white-walled villages crowding close together,

Clinging to the old sod in spite of wind and weather:

Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle,

Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the banks of Foyle,

Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballisodare,

Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare.

The cosy little villages that shelter from the mist

Where the great Western Walls by ocean spray are kissed.

The happy little villages that cuddle in the sun

When blackberries ripen and the harvest work is done.

Corrymèela, Croaghnakeela, Clogher, Cahirciveen,

Cappagharne, Carrigaloe, Cashel and Coosheen,

Castlefin and Carrigtwohill, Crumlin, Clara, Clane,

Carrigaholt, Carrigaline, Cloughjordan and Coolrain.

The dreamy little villages where, by the fire at night,

Old Shanachies, with ghostly tales, the boldest hearts affright.

The crooning of the wind-blast in the wailing banshee’s cry,

And when the silver hazels stir they say the fairies sigh.

Kilfenora, Kilfinane, Kinnitty, Killylea,

Kilmoganny, Kiltimagh, Kilronan and Kilrea,

Killeshandra, Kilmacow, Killiney, Kilashee,

Killenaule, Kilmyshall, Killorglin and Killeagh.

Leave the little villages, over the black seas go,

Learn the stranger’s welcome, learn the exile’s woe.

Leave the little villages but think not to forget,

Afar they’ll rise before your eyes to rack your bosoms yet.

Moneymore, Moneygall and Moyne,

Mullinahone, Mullinavat, Mullagh and Mooncoin,

Shanagolden, Shanballymore, Stranorlar and Slane,

Toberheena, Toomeyvara, Tempo and Strabane.

On the Southern Llanos-north, where strange light gleams,

Many a yearning exile sees them in his dreams.

Dying voices murmur, past all pain and care:

‘Lo! the little villages, God has heard our prayer.’

Lisdoonvarna, Lisadell, Lisdargan, Lisnaskea,

Portglenone, Portarlington. Portumna, Portmagee,

Clonegall and Clonegowan, Cloondara and Clonae,

God bless the little villages and guard them night and day.

Adieu to Belashanny! where I was bred and born;

Go where I may I’ll think of you, as sure as night and morn;

The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,

And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;

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 Belashanny 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 fore and aft keep hauling and gathering up the clew,

Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.

Then they may sit with pipes alit, and many a joke and yarn. –

Adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,

When all the green-hilled harbour is full from side to side,

From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,

From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills grey;

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 all that pull an oar,

A lugsail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;

From Killybegs to bold Slieve League, that 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 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 Harbour 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;

And 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 waters run by mossy cliff, and banks 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 riverside they go, where I have often been –

O never shall I see again the happy days I’ve seen!

A thousand chances are to one I never will return –

Adieu to Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,

And the fiddle says to boys and girls, ‘Get up and shake your feet!’

To seanachas 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!

Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Port,

Round the Abbey, Moy and Knather – I wish no one any hurt;

The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall and Portnasun,

If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.

I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;

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

My loving friends 111 bear in mind, and often fondly turn

To think of Belashanny and 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;

Tho’ heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey

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 Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne.

I fasted for some forty days on bread and buttermilk,

For passing round the bottle with girls in rags or silk,

In country shawl or Paris cloak, had put my wits astray,

And what’s the good of women, for all that they can say

Is fol de rol de rolly O.

Round Lough Derg’s holy island I went upon the stones,

I prayed at all the Stations upon my marrow-bones,

And there I found an old man, and though I prayed all day

And that old man beside me, nothing would he say

But fol de rol de rolly O.

All know that all the dead in the world about that place are stuck,

And that should mother seek her son she’d have but little luck

Because the fires of Purgatory have ate their shapes away;

I swear to God I questioned them, and all they had to say

Was fol de rol de rolly O.

A great black ragged bird appeared when I was in the boat;

Some twenty feet from tip to tip had it stretched rightly out,

With flopping and with flapping it made a great display,

But I never stopped to question, what could the boatman say

But fol de rol de rolly O.

Now I am in the public-house and lean upon the wall,

So come in rags or come in silk, in cloak or country shawl,

And come with learned lovers or with what men you may,

For I can put the whole lot down and all I have to say

Is fol de rol de rolly O.

Cloud lifted off the mountain. Thin sunlight

moved a pale green over the hill-farms.

Lough Erne came clear, bog-cotton dried out white.

I was parked on a high moor, listening

to peewits and wind blowing round the car,

when something came to life in the driving mirror,

a man walking fast, in an overcoat

and boots, bareheaded, big, determined

in his sure haste along the crown of the road

like a farmer bearing down on trespassers.

There was no house for miles, I had not passed him

nor anyone, nor seen a sign of campers,

and I somehow felt myself the challenged one.

The car door slammed. I was suddenly out

standing face to face with William Carleton

who once in Georgian Ireland listened for

the gun-butt to come cracking on the door

the night the night-self of his Orange neighbour

swooped to hammer home the shape of things.

‘On this road you caught up with the two women,’

I said, faking confidence. ‘Your Lough Derg Pilgrim

haunts me every time I cross this mountain –

as if I am being followed or following.

I’m on my way there now to do the station.’

‘O holy Jesus Christ, does nothing change?’

His head jerked sharply side to side and up

like a diver’s surfacing after a plunge,

then with a look that said, let this cup

pass, he seemed to take cognizance again

of where he was: the road, the mountain top,

and the air, benign after the soft rain,

worked on his anger visibly, until:

‘It is a road you travel on your own.

I who read
Gil Blas
in the reek of flax

and smelt the bodies rotting on their gibbets

and saw their looped slime gleaming from the sacks –

hard-mouthed Ribbonmen and Orange bigots

made me into the old fork-tongued turncoat

who mucked the byre of our politics.

If times were hard, then I could be hard too.

I made the smiler in me sink the knife.

And maybe there’s a lesson there for you

whoever you are, wherever you came out of,

for though there’s something natural in your smile

there’s something in it strikes me as defensive.’

‘I have no mettle for the angry role,’

I said. ‘I come from County Derry,

born in earshot of an Hibernian hall

where a band of Ribbonmen played hymns to Mary.

By then that brotherhood was a frail procession

staggering back home drunk on Patrick’s Day

in collarettes and sashes fringed with green.

Obedient strains like theirs tuned me first

and not that harp of unforgiving iron

the Fenians strung. A lot of what you wrote

I heard and did: this Lough Derg station,

flax-pullings, dances, summer cross-roads chat

and the shaky local voice of education.

All that. And always, Orange drurns.

And neighbours on the roads at night with guns.’

‘I know, I know, I know, I know,’ he said,

‘nothing changes. But make sense of what comes,

remember everything and keep your head.’

‘Green slime that we called glit, wet mushrooms,

dark-clumped grass where cows or horses dunged,

the cluck when pith-lined chestnut-shells split open

in your hand, the melt of shells corrupting,

I seem to have known all these things forever.’

I felt my hand being shaken now by Carleton:

‘All this is like a trout kept in a spring

or maggots sown in wounds for desperate ointment –

another life that cleans our element.’