Dunhallow

Far, away from my friends,
On the chill hills of Galway,
My heart droops and bends,
And my spirit pines alway, —
'T is as not when I roved
With the wild rakes of Mallow,
All is here unbeloved,
And I sigh for Duhallow.

My sweetheart was cold.
Or in sooth I'd have wept her.-
Ah, that love should grow old
And decline from his sceptre,
While the heart's feelings yet
Seem so tender and callow!
But I deeplier regret
My lost home in Duhallow!

My steed is no more.
And my hounds roam unyelling;
Grass waves at the door
Of my dark-windowed dwelling.
Through sunshine and storm
Corrach's acres lie fallow;
Would Heaven I were warm
Once again in Duhallow!

In the blackness of night.
In the depth of disaster.
My heart were more light
Could I call myself master
Of Corrach once more
Than if here I might wallow
In gold thick as gore
Ear away from Duhallow!

I loved Italy's show
In the years of my greenness,
Till I saw the deep woe,
The dehaseinent, the meanness.
That rot that bright land!
I have since grown less shallow.
And would now rather stand
In a bog in Duhallow!

This place I'm in here,
On the gray hills of Galway,
I like for its cheer
Well enough in a small way;
But the men are all short,
And the women all sallow;
Give M'Quillan his quart
Of brown ale in Duhallow.

My sporting days o'er,
And my love-days gone after,
Not earth could restore
Me my old life and laughter.
Burns now my breast's flame
Like a dim wick of tallow,
Yet I love thee the same
As at twenty, Duhallow!

But my hopes, like my rhymes,
Are consumed and expended;
What's the use of old times
When our time is now ended?
Drop the talk! Death will come
For the debt that we all owe,
And the grave is a home
Quite as old as Duhallow!