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BALNAVORAN.

"The memory of the brightest joys

In childhood's happy morn that found us

Is dearer than the richest toys

The present vainly sheds around us" - Griffin

Last eve I stray'd beyond the lake,

The West wore tints bright golden,

But, ah my soul was sadly filled

With recollections olden;

The damson groves were snowy white,

And yet I fain would mourn

The sight I saw ' mid Natures bloom -

 'Twas ruin'd Balnavoran.

Some time ago it was a place

That cheer'd my soul to enter -

The cozy cots that circled round,

The chapel in the centre.

Where Father Reilly preach `d and pray `d,

And sooth ` d the heart folorn -

Now weeds and crumbling walls alone

Remain in Balnavoran.

Ah me how changed - that straw - clad dome

Was then our rustic college,

Where I from poor Ned Smyth received

My scanty store of knowledge.

But he - God rest his guiltless soul -

Has found the last sad bourne;

He sleeps beyond in Enniskeen,

Far, far from Banavoran.

A mother's love - a father's smile,

The bright stars of out childhood

Beneath them spring the sweetest flowers

That scent life's tangled wild wood;

These are the boons too early lost,

From me too early torn -

They then illumed my humbled home

Near darling Ballinavoran.

Here stood the village grocer's store,

With sign - board blue and yellow,

That lured in youth my longing gaze

With sugar brown and mellow.

'Tis now a fallen edifice,

Of all its glories shorn,

There's nought to sell and few to buy

in poor old Ballinavoran.

John Caffrey then was well to do

In cattle and in tillage,

And all who know him own'd him Lord

And ruler of the village;

His boots shone glossy black, his spurs

A prince might well have worn -

He's now a breadless pauper lodged

Near roofless Balnavoran.

Owen Fagan, too was deem'd a man

A lady might admire,

And many a jig I've seen him dance,

Well play'd by Mick Maguire.

His dress once neat as frieze could be,

Is scanty, old and torn -

A crutch sustains his thin - spare limbs

To - day in Ballinavoran.

And where's the coleen bawn I loved

With boyhood's blissful ardour ?

I, lonely, seek the silent glen

Where first my heart adored her.

The thorn - hedge stands - the brook runs by

The grass - green robes are worn

By flow'ry dells - but she's not there

To gladden Balnavoran.

Departed loved ones some have fled

Whose golden worth snatch'd from us,

Have found beyond the western wave

A land of faithless promise;

While hate and scorn are there endured,

Which here too long were borne;

A holy grave were better far

Near ruin'd Balnavoran.

And I, even I, sadly sing

Of Fortune's fatal turn,

May soon in Death's cold silence lie

'neath some neglected urn;

And none perhaps shall sing my dirge,

Let fall a tear, or mourn

The simple bard who loved so well,

And weeps o'er Balnavoran.

A LOVE-LETTER TO MY WIFE.

Let other bards invoke their swains

In love's serenest accents tender ;

Or sing of Cupid's rosy chains,

And beauty's ever-conquering splendour.

ii.

But thou to me, asthore machree,

Art dearer far, and who dares flout thee?,

0 ! false and fickle must they be

In heart and soul that once could doubt thee.

III.

W here do thy winning charms lie?

Not in the transient gleams of beauty,

But in the spirit-speaking eye

What tells of truth's unflinching duty.

iv.

Through folly's tangled paths I've strayed

Since life's uncertain misty morning,

And fount what,'twas to be repaid

By worldly hate and worldly scorning.

But oh! I bless one happy hour

That flung thy angel kindness o'er me,

For, wanting thee, I'd want the power

To trace one ray of joy before me.

vi.

Yes !in... thy soul there lies a mine

Of worth and never-failing fondness,

Which far transcends the gems that shine

In all the glare of earthly grandness.

VII.

Then come, my own, my patriot-love,

My pure, my dark-eyed Celtic Mary; T

The orbs of heaven may change above

But thy fond heart can never vary.

THE LAKE OF BALLYHOE. - taken from " The Rural Harp 1861 by Paddy Reilly

[The "Gap of the North" is at the entrance of the Barony of Farny, near the

junction of the counties of Meath, Louth; and Monaghan.

The spot is identical with the present bridge of Ballyhoe-or, as it is called in ancient annals, the "Ford of Belahoo"-and is adjacent to the lake in which the river

itself, the Glyde, takes its rise. Here, in 1539, was fought the " Battle of Belahoo," between the Lord Deputy Grey' and the Chiefs O'Neill and O'Donnell,

by which the Northern Confederation is said to have been broken up.

"That prosperous fight," says Sir John Davies, " on the borders of Meath, the memory whereof is yet famous." This writer cites as his authority

an Irish MS., the Book of Howth. The conflict is also described in the Annals of the Four Masters ;

but the pretended particulars given by Cox, Leland and others, out of Hollingshed, are all shown to be unreliable.

Moore says : " The two chiefs (O'Neill and O'Donnell), it appears, had combined in a predatory inroad into Meath-attracted far less, however,

by the great glories of Tara than by the plunder and havoc expected from their foray; and, having destroyed the towns of Ardee and Navan,

were returning loaded with spoil, when, being pursued by Lord Leonard, they were overtaken near the ford of Belahoo, and after a weak attempt at resistance,

were all confusedly put to flight, leaving their booty in the hands of the pursuers."

An engagement between General Ireton and the a Irishry" was also fought, in after years, on the same ground.)

The evening sun is sinking with a sweet and ruddy smile,

The sky is now without a cloud, like soul "without a guile;

The heart of man ne'er beat within with such afervid glow

As fills my soul when thus I view the Lake of Ballyhoe.

II.

Sweet lake ! when other scenes I view'd my heart return'd to thee,

Nor could the thoughts of wealth or fame prove half so sweet to me;

On life's uncertain billows were I driven to and fro,

My haven of repose would be the hake of Ballyhoe.

iii.

The rippling Glyde that rolls his tide through many a winding glen,

Where erst we spent our boyish days, 'mid brake and mossy fen,

As when a youthful warrior doth rush to meetthe foe,

I see him leave his parent source, the Lake of Ballyhoe.

iv.

The islets fair that stud its breast with richest foliage crown'd,

The sloping hills and white-wall'd homes stand sentinels around,

0 ! 'tis a scene that nought on earth would tempt me to forego

'Tis love itself to look upon the Lake of Ballyhoe !

See Ardagh's rocky summit as of olden time it stood,

Like a giant, of the fabled days o`er flood

While the little church that stands above is, mirror'd far below

In the blue and placid waters of the Lake of Ballyhoo.

VI.

'Tis gladsome when God's glorious sun beams down upon our earth,

And gives the lovely flowers of spring their

budding and their birth;

0 ! lovelier flow'rs on mead or mound are seldom seen to blow

Than deck the verdant valleys round the Lake of Ballyhoo.

VII.

The slave of wealth in search of health may seek a southern shore,

May gaze upon-the bright glacier, and hear the cascade roar;

Yet if he loved our own old land, afar he would not go

We've many a scene to gladden like the Lake of Ballyhoo.

VIII.

And ye that sicken where the hum of ceaseless traffic rolls,

Where nature's freshness never leaves its tinge upon your souls,

Your weary world is dark and dull, your lives are sad and slow,

A peasant's toil were bliss beside the Lake Ballyhoo.

ix.

Full many a bard with sweeter lyre thy praise

bath haply song,

And caroll'd all thy beauties in the dear old Gaelic tongue;

Yet simple though my strain may be, some artless hearts may glow

When thus I try to raise thy fame, sweet Lake

of Ballyhoe !