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Photo, Saunders, Buffalo, i90S 
 
Donegal Memories and 
 Other Poems 
 
 BY 
 
 James Nicoll Johnston 
 
 •Those recollected hours that have the charm 
 OI visionary things, those lovely forms 
 And sweet sensations that throw back our lite. 
 And almost make remotest Infancy 
 A visible scene, on which the sun Is shining." 
 
 PRIVATELV PRINTED 
 
 THE MATTHEWS-NORTHKUP WORKS 
 
 BUFFALO, NEW YORK 
 
 MCMX 
 
GLEN IHIS PICTURES BY PERMISSION 
 OF HONORABLE WILLIAM PRYOR 
 LETCHWORTH, LL. D. UNLESS OTHER- 
 WISE ACKNOWLEDGED, THE OTHER 
 PICTURES ARE FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 
 BYJOHN A. BLACK,M. A. (tHE KNIGHT 
 OF blarney), BUFFALO, NEW YORK 
 
 >n'- 
 
 Copyright, 1910, by James Nicoll Johnston 
 
In Loving Memory 
 
 These Poems are Inscribed 
 
 TO MY Mother 
 
 Jean Nicoll Johnston 
 
 24913fi 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 ABRAHAM LINCOLN, 
 
 THE GUARD ON THE RHINE, 
 
 AN ARTISTIC ALCHEMIST, 
 
 IN VAIN, O MAN, CONTENDING, 
 
 THANKSGIVING HYMN, 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 
 
 NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1909, 
 
 A FRIEND'S ADVICE, 
 
 GERRIT SMITH, 
 
 SAINT AUGUSTINE, 
 
 LARS GUSTAVE SELLSTEDT, 
 
 WELTON M. MODISETTE, 
 
 IMPROMPTUS, 
 
 TO ANY ONE INTENDING TO PUBLISH A BOOK, 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE FLY LEAF OF MRS. J. D. 
 L.'S POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO, 
 
 TO MRS. C. B. S., 
 
 TO MRS. J. J. A., 
 
 ON RECEIVING A LETTER-BALANCE FROM MR. 
 AND MRS. F. M. H., 
 
 HALCYON. 
 
 TO J. V. W. ANNAN, 
 
 MATERIAL PROSPERITY, 
 
 AT THE GRAVE OF MARY E. LORD, 
 
 ROBERT KEATING, 
 
 EICHE-RUHE, 
 
 TO A VOYAGER BOUND FOR THE ORIENT, 
 
 TO RABBI FALK AND MRS. FALK ON THEIR 
 
 SILVER WEDDING ANNIVERSARY, 
 A GOOD MAN'S BIRTHDAY, 
 GLEN IRIS POEMS, 
 GLEN IRIS, 
 A MEMORY, 
 THERE'S A BEAUTIFUL SPOT BY THE WILD 
 
 GENESEE, 
 REST, 
 
 THE HAPPY VALLEY, 
 A PICTURE, 
 TO M. F., 
 TO GLEN IRIS, 
 DONEGAL MEMORIES, 
 LONGINGS, 
 MEMORIES, 
 EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS, 
 
 Page 
 
 
 11 
 
 12, 13 
 
 
 13 
 
 
 14 
 
 
 15 
 
 
 16 
 
 17 
 
 ■, 18 
 
 
 19 
 
 
 20 
 
 
 21 
 
 
 22 
 
 
 25 
 
 
 26 
 
 
 26 
 
 
 26 
 
 
 27 
 
 
 27 
 
 
 27 
 
 
 28 
 
 
 29 
 
 
 29 
 
 30 
 
 ,31 
 
 32 
 
 ,33 
 
 
 34 
 
 35, 
 
 ,36 
 
 
 37 
 
 
 38 
 
 39 
 
 -65 
 
 41, 
 
 42 
 
 45, 
 
 46 
 
 49, 
 
 50 
 
 53, 
 
 54 
 
 57, 
 
 58 
 
 
 61 
 
 
 62 
 
 
 65 
 
 67-] 
 
 114 
 
 
 71 
 
 72, 
 
 73 
 
 
 74 
 
of rhythmic expression that was born in him, and it gave us 
 the " Donegal Memories," which have sung their simple sweet 
 feeling into the hearts of many more than their Irish readers. 
 If I care a little more for the elder verse of the eighteen-six- 
 ties-and-seventies, it is because of the habit of a long affection, 
 no doubt, and not many will assent to such a preference. 
 The poems of the two periods are interesting in their differences, 
 as well as delightful in themselves, and they gain by being 
 bound together. 
 
 Another Buffalo poet once put his feeling toward and his 
 thought of the writer of this book into the following sonnet: 
 
 "TO AN OLD FRIEND" 
 
 A kindred taste in books — the better kind, 
 A love for humor — of an honest vein, 
 A turn for talk, for verses, and a strain 
 Of Scottish blood ; last but not least to mind 
 A joy in vain debate ; all these combined 
 Have made us young together — spite the score 
 Of years you rank me, and the little more 
 Of gray above a brow no deeper lined. 
 
 But to keep yoimg together — how solve this ? 
 Who reads the riddle never need grow old ; 
 To leave the heart unlocked, that naught in vain. 
 So it be worthy — yes, though it be pain — 
 Shall seek the door ; old friend, I cannot miss 
 The simple answer, by your own life told ! 
 
 I am permitted to borrow from Robert Cameron Rogers 
 this fine tribute "To an Old Friend," which gives adequate 
 expression to what I would put into words of my own if I 
 could. 
 
 J. N. LARNED 
 
ABRAHAM LINCOLN 
 
 Lying in State in Buffalo, April 27, 1865. 
 
 Bear him to his Western home, 
 
 Whence he came four years ago ; 
 Not beneath some Eastern dome, 
 But where Freedom's airs may come. 
 Where the prairie grasses grow, 
 To the friends who loved him so. 
 
 Take him to his quiet rest ; 
 
 Toll the bell and fire the gun ; 
 He who served his country best. 
 He whom millions loved and bless'd, 
 
 Now has fame immortal won ; 
 
 Rack of brain and heart is done. 
 
 Shed thy tears, O, April rain ! 
 O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps ! 
 
 Wash away the bloody stain ! 
 
 Drape the skies in grief, 0, rain ! 
 Lo ! a nation with thee weeps. 
 Grieving o'er her martyred slain. 
 
 To the people whence he came. 
 Bear him gently back again. 
 
 Greater his than victor's fame, — 
 
 His is now a sainted name ; 
 Never ruler had such gain — 
 Never people had such pain. 
 
 Mr. James NicoU Johnston's poem on Lincoln, printed above, was published at the 
 head of the editorial columns of the Buffalo Express, April 27, 1865, anonymously. 
 It was afterwards republished, anonymously, in " Poetical Tributes to the Memory of 
 Abraham Lincoln, J. B. Lippincott & Co." The author's identity was established by 
 its appearance in Mr. Johnston's *' Poets and Poetry of Buffalo." 
 
 [ 11 ] 
 
THE GUARD ON THE RHINE 
 
 Translated from the German, June, 1870. 
 
 There swells a cry as thunder-crash, 
 As clash of swords and breakers dash — 
 On to the Rhine, to the German Rhine! 
 Who will protect the river line ? 
 Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 To millions swiftly came the cry. 
 And lightnings flashed from every eye ; 
 Our youth so good and brave will stand 
 And guard thee — Holy Border Land! 
 Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine. 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 And though my heart should beat no more. 
 
 No foreign foe shall hold thy shore, — 
 
 Rich as in water is thy flood, 
 
 Is Germany in hero blood. 
 
 Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 Up looked he to the heaven's blue, 
 Where hero-dead our actions view ; 
 He swore and proudly sought the strife — 
 "The Rhine is German as my life." 
 Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 [ 12 ] 
 
While yet one drop of blood throbs warm, 
 To wield the sword remains one arm, 
 To hold the rifle yet one hand, 
 No foeman steps upon thy strand. 
 Loved Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 The oath resounds, the billows run ; 
 Our colors flutter in the sun ; 
 On to the Rhine, to the German Rhine ! 
 We will protect thee, river mine ! 
 Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
 Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 
 
 AN ARTISTIC ALCHEMIST 
 
 Inscription to M. R. T., in her copy of Donegal Memories. 
 
 The emblem of Erin so vaunted 
 
 Was just the design that she wanted; 
 
 So with one of her gifts manifold. 
 And being all the time a book-lover, 
 
 She changed the green shamrocks to gold; 
 You can see them outside on the cover. 
 
 [ 13 ] 
 
IN VAIN, O MAN, CONTENDING 
 
 From the German 
 
 In vain, O man, contending. 
 
 Thou mak'st but care and pain ; 
 A life repose intending 
 
 Thou never canst attain. 
 Overtakes the king and peasant 
 
 Alike, death's fearful smart ; 
 Be silent for the present. 
 
 And patient, O my heart ! 
 
 Not ever bloom the roses, — 
 
 A storm and they must fall ; 
 Yet mother-earth discloses 
 
 A grave prepared for all. 
 The day that has no morrow — 
 
 When that last day appears. 
 Then ended is all sorrow 
 
 And wept are all our tears. 
 
 From woes no man can number 
 
 We're borne at last to rest ; 
 Close-to, in endless slumber, 
 
 Are weary eyelids pressed ; 
 Death's arrow is unfailing 
 
 To quiet every smart ; 
 A few more days of ailing, — 
 
 Be patient, O my heart ! 
 
 [ 14 ] 
 
THANKSGIVING HYMN 
 
 Beneficent Father, 
 
 Before Thee to-day, 
 Together we gather, 
 
 Our homage to pay, 
 For bounties that flowed, 
 
 The goodness, the cheer — 
 All Thy hands have bestowed 
 
 Through the outgoing year. 
 
 The fields we have cultured, 
 
 Thy sunshine and rain 
 Have nourished and nurtured 
 
 To ripeness again. 
 No blight has us saddened. 
 
 No dark angel's wing — 
 Our hearts have been gladdened 
 
 By what Thou didst bring. 
 
 For our flocks still increasing. 
 
 Our harvest's rich store. 
 Thy kindness unceasing 
 
 To us evermore, — 
 Our land blessed of heaven. 
 
 With rest from the sword, — 
 For all Thou hast given. 
 
 We thank Thee, O Lord. 
 
 [ IS ] 
 
CHRISTMAS 
 
 Snow, wrap the earth in robes of white ; 
 
 Ye stars heaven's vault adorning, 
 Shed o'er the world a brighter light 
 
 On this dear Christmas morning. 
 Ye lofty bells, your anthems play 
 
 From every towering steeple ; 
 Glad tidings of great joy this day, 
 
 Have come to all the people. 
 
 From eastern lands of old renown, 
 
 By western prairies swelling. 
 In many an overcrowded town, 
 
 In lone and scattered dwelling. 
 Goes up the glad triumphant strain 
 
 To him who ruleth o'er us, — 
 Men giving back a loud refrain 
 
 Unto the angels' chorus. 
 
 To thee, dear Bethlehem, to-day. 
 
 Our willing hearts are turning. 
 Yet by the manger still we stay, 
 
 While faith and love are burning. 
 That manger is a sacred shrine 
 
 Where pulse and heart beat faster ; 
 Its babe is now our King divine. 
 
 Redeemer, Lord, and Master. 
 
 [ 16 ] 
 
NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1909 
 
 The sad Old Year has passed away, 
 
 And the glad New Year is here to-day, — 
 
 Come with the lessons we soon must learn. 
 Come with the truths we would fain discern : 
 
 A mission for all, deeds to be wrought ; 
 Duties that cannot be sold or bought. 
 
 The time has gone for mere speech and pen. 
 The Nation's great need is for earnest men. 
 
 We turn, Old Year, our questioning thought, 
 And read the teachings thy changes brought : 
 
 Some hearts have drunk from a living spring, 
 And life with them was a gladsome thing ; 
 
 And some have felt the keen pangs that rise 
 As they looked in vain for loving eyes. 
 
 Through endless strivings of hope and fear. 
 We watched thy passage, thou sad Old Year ! 
 
 Counting thy days we turn with pride 
 To scan the page of thy sunny side ; 
 
 Through the early mists we felt our ways 
 Into the light of thy later days ; — 
 
 Harvests gathered of untold wealth. 
 Sweet summer breezes, bringing us health ; 
 
 Commerce speeding her deep-laden fleets, 
 The hum of traffic in all our streets ; 
 
 [ 17 ] 
 
And better still that the Nation's thought 
 Is true to the teachings the fathers taught ; 
 
 And the treasured flame of Freedom's fire, 
 Burns now in the son as once in the sire. 
 
 O, glad New Year! we longingly look 
 Into thy dim, mysterious book. 
 
 Our hopes are strong as with eager eyes 
 We would read the Nation's destinies ; 
 
 For promised gifts each watcher stands 
 And holds to thee his outstretched hands. 
 
 Bring us the truth, unheeding the cost, 
 Though all the baubles of life be lost. 
 
 The faith and patience that counts no price 
 As worthy of liberty's sacrifice. 
 
 O, year of years, in every land 
 
 Earth's mourning, hapless sufferers stand. 
 
 Looking afar with straining eyes 
 To hail the bow in the western skies. 
 
 We labor and pray and still endure, — 
 God's time seems slow, but the end is sure. 
 
 Break off, O, Year ! all fetters that bind, 
 Spread the knowledge that lifts mankind. 
 
 Bring us the tidings we long to hear. 
 And be all thy days a glad New Year. 
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
A FRIEND'S ADVICE 
 
 Poor foolish one, who vainly sits, 
 
 Still hatching eggs of sorrow, 
 Who sees the fancies of to-day 
 
 Become great facts to-morrow, 
 Why grieve ye for the changing heart ? 
 
 Or mourn for friendship's crosses ? 
 The man who acts the wiser part, 
 
 Will laugh still at his losses. 
 
 Have boon companions from you gone ? 
 
 You're freer from temptation ; 
 Has lady-love to rival flown ? — 
 
 A blessed dispensation. 
 More precious friends you yet shall find, 
 
 A damsel that is truer ; 
 Pleasure awaits the cheerful mind, 
 
 Success the faithful wooer. 
 
 Then throw aside your robes of grief, 
 
 And let your life be jolly; 
 To every wrinkle give a reef. 
 
 To fools give melancholy. 
 Thank Heaven for what it has bestowed ; 
 
 Cease, cease, this useless pining ! 
 And take the independent road, 
 
 Where light is always shining. 
 
 [ 19 1 
 
GERRIT SMITH 
 
 Sonnet written for Mrs. Louise Willard Miller. 
 
 Few were the fighters when our hero came 
 And bravely led the hosts in freedom's van ; 
 A patriot he, who feared no tyrant's ban, 
 
 Fought a good fight against our country's shame, 
 
 Nor ever flinched for hostile hate or blame. 
 
 With lives like his — " the noble men who can," 
 We've read his story and we love the man ; 
 
 Seek the immortals and you'll find his name. 
 
 You of his line have other work to do ; 
 
 Though slavery's dead, freedom is far away, 
 The weak still suffer from the heartless strong 
 Now, while the way of duty you pursue. 
 Look ever upward and believing pray 
 
 For right triumphant and the end of wrong. 
 
 October 19, 1908. 
 
 20 ] 
 
SAINT AUGUSTINE 
 
 I silently sit by the Spanish Fort, 
 
 And watch the ensign fall ; 
 The white-sailed boats are seeking the port, 
 
 Or lie by the low sea-wall. 
 
 And darkness spreads o'er the eastern sky, 
 Save the " flash-light" by the shore ; 
 
 I hear the Matanzas ebbing by. 
 And the ocean's distant roar. 
 
 Stilled is the beat of the sea-bird's wings. 
 And borne on the evening breeze 
 
 There comes the calm that the twilight brings 
 From gardens of tropical trees. 
 
 And odors of sweetness fill the air. 
 As the shadows fall on the deep ; 
 
 And lost are time, and space, and care. 
 And whether I wake or sleep. 
 
 For thoughts are mine, which no one tells, — 
 Of what life has brought to me ; 
 
 They came from the old cathedral bells, 
 And are gone on an endless sea. 
 
 [ 21 
 
LARS GUSTAVE SELLSTEDT 
 
 On his Ninetieth Birthday. 
 
 At four score years most men retire, 
 
 Their after-days show oft decline ; 
 
 His mind still glows with olden fire, 
 
 And does good work at eighty-nine. 
 
 One thing there is his friends now want. 
 
 That Osier see him and recant. 
 
 To-day he's four score years and ten ; 
 
 His life and labors we all know ; 
 With story, brush, and vigorous pen 
 He's added fame to Buffalo. 
 
 One thing there is his friends all want, 
 That Osier see him and recant. 
 
 Of lives like his have poets sung — 
 
 Whose aims to noble ideals tend ; 
 
 At ninety years we find him young. 
 
 All Buffalo proclaims him friend. 
 
 One thing there is these friends now want. 
 That Osier see him and recant. 
 
 X7^^ 
 
 [ 22 ] 
 
ALBRIGHT ART GALLERY 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
WELTON M. MODISETTE 
 
 No narrow creed his generous soul confined ; 
 He loved his Maker and the works He planned, 
 His country, and his duty's high command. 
 The themes the wise in ancient records find, 
 The joy-inspiring touch of mind with mind. 
 And all things beautiful on sea and land. 
 Teacher of truth he was, convincing, grand ; 
 Then God so willed it and our friend grew blind. 
 
 No weak complainings in his darkened hours ; 
 Dear memories lived, and friends to him were eyes ; 
 Love, music, converse, made all seasons bright ; 
 From songs of birds and fragrance of sweet flowers. 
 In thoughts that from deep introspection rise, 
 And communings with God: — Lo, there was light! 
 
 [ 25 ] 
 
IMPROMPTUS 
 
 To Hon. W. P. Letchworth, on seeing his Book on tlie Insane frequently quoted 
 and endorsed in a Hungarian book. 
 
 You have an appetite for facts, 
 
 Chapters and tables hard to frame ; 
 Now, in a Magyar Book of Acts, 
 
 The author glorifies your name. 
 
 Soon far from classic Genesee, — 
 
 In Yeddo, Pekin, or Bombay, 
 When savants come to disagree, 
 
 They'll ask — "And what does Letchworth say?" 
 
 TO ANY ONE INTENDING TO PUBLISH 
 A BOOK 
 
 Have you written a book and wish to print it ; 
 
 See there's money on hand and do not stint it ; 
 Seek M-N Works — with good men to overlook. 
 
 And then you'll be sure of a perfect book. 
 Their part is what arts and crafts can do — 
 
 Is the book a success ? That depends on you. 
 
 INSCRIPTION ON THE FLY LEAF OF MRS. J. D. L.'S 
 POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO. 
 
 Our subjects are familiar things. 
 
 Fancies and thoughts that come and go ; 
 
 Each modest muse may stretch her wings, 
 But finds her rest in Buffalo. 
 
 We cultivate a fair estate, — 
 
 No mighty gift of genius ours ; 
 Others may boast possessions great, — 
 
 We have a garden of sweet flowers. 
 
 [ 26 ] 
 
TO MRS. C. B. S. 
 
 With a copy of Samuel Lover's Anthology of Irish Verse. 
 
 A birthday and an uplift ; 
 
 How fast time rushes ! 
 Pray, take this book, a gift 
 With heart-warm wishes. 
 Old songs of Erin lie beneath the cover. 
 By a Lover-Bard and for a music lover. 
 
 TO MRS. J. J. A. 
 
 With a small bill to buy a Christmas present for her little daughter. 
 
 I have a fancy 
 
 It would be pleasant 
 
 To send a present 
 To little Nancy. 
 
 And so to end it, 
 
 I ask her mother 
 
 To take the bother ; 
 Here's money, spend it. 
 
 Buy a full moon. 
 
 Or whatever you like ; 
 
 A Raphael, Van Dyke, 
 Or a silver spoon. 
 
 ON RECEIVING A LETTER-BALANCE FROM 
 MR. AND MRS. F. M. H. 
 
 Dear friends, your gift to me to-day 
 
 Will move me to live better ; 
 Before, my words I tried to weigh ; 
 
 Now, I will weigh each letter. 
 
 [ 27 ] 
 
HALCYON 
 
 The home at Queenstown, Canada, of Mr. Richard K. Noye. 
 
 Great locust trees that screen from passers by ; 
 
 An orchard garden where the robins run ; 
 
 Green bowers of rest secluded from the sun ; 
 Two stately cedars grateful to the eye ; 
 Above, in glory outlined 'gainst the sky, 
 
 The monument a patriot-hero won — 
 
 Beyond, wide landscapes fair as Avallon, — 
 The mighty river, silent, flowing nigh. 
 How good to live and muse in such a spot ; 
 
 To watch great Nature in her various moods. 
 And meditate on life and summers gone, 
 Recalling loves pure, sacred, unforgot — 
 
 Until the twilight rests upon the woods ; 
 
 Then, sup with friends and dream in Halcyon. 
 
 Queenstown, Canada, August 5, 1905. 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
To J. V. W. ANNAN 
 
 On his Ninety-fourth Birthday. 
 
 Honored friend, now ninety-four, 
 
 On this eventful day 
 What can we wish you more 
 
 Than the blessings you have had ; 
 What new words can we say ? 
 
 You've had friends, and faith and peace, 
 The grace to make hearts glad, 
 
 Home love in richest store, — 
 Heaven waiting earth's release ; 
 
 What can we wish you more ? 
 
 MATERIAL PROSPERITY 
 
 Written for M. A. 
 
 Beyond the Atlantic's western shore. 
 Where tireless force forever drives — 
 Till all the ideals of most lives 
 
 Are power and profit evermore ; 
 
 With knowledge vast, unknown before, 
 Science sees far and commerce thrives, 
 Powers combine; — while fashion strives. 
 
 Are these what seers have dreamed of yore ? 
 
 We have the cure for many ills. 
 And train all nature to our aid ; 
 Small gain if we be unaware 
 
 Of visions seen on Eastern hills, 
 
 Warnings to make the heart afraid ; 
 And heavenly voices in the air. 
 
 [ 29] 
 
AT THE GRAVE OF MARY E. LORD 
 
 Queen City of the western lake, 
 
 By Erie's pleasant waters, 
 You mourn for her whom death did take — 
 
 The kindliest of your daughters. 
 
 A child of yours, she loved you well. 
 She shared your growth and glory ; 
 
 Her name shall in your annals dwell, 
 Her life will be your story. 
 
 The joys of nature were her own, 
 
 In country or in city ; 
 Of all God's creatures, she found none 
 
 Too low for love and pity. 
 
 Into her hospitable home 
 
 Came many a woodland stranger, 
 
 For there they fearlessly might roam, 
 Secure from foe and danger. 
 
 When hearts were cold and law was dead, 
 
 She saw the horse o'erloaded. 
 The wound unhealed, the kine unfed. 
 
 The beast to th' shambles goaded, — 
 
 Her woman's soul, with holy zeal, 
 Passed not the wrong unheeded ; 
 
 She taught a city's heart to feel, 
 And conquered where she pleaded. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
The true, the tender one is gone, 
 The faithful heart is sleeping ; 
 
 Home of our dead, dear Forest Lawn, 
 We leave her in your keeping. 
 
 O, women cruel, cold, and hard. 
 Lives given to senseless fashion. 
 
 Learn by the grave of Mary Lord 
 The Gospel of Compassion. 
 
 [ 31 ] 
 
ROBERT KEATING 
 
 On his Seventy-fifth Birthday. 
 
 Let friends all rejoice 
 
 To-night, at this meeting ; 
 And proclaim with one voice 
 
 Our faith in R. Keating ; — 
 He stands for fair play, 
 
 Religion and truth, 
 As zealous to-day 
 
 As in years of his youth. 
 
 He does not pitch ball ; 
 
 At golf a poor player ; 
 Never saw Donegal : 
 
 For new cults doesn't care ; — 
 But as a mirth-raiser 
 
 He holds the front rank ; 
 And as an appraiser — 
 
 Enquire at the bank. 
 
 The things he don't want 
 
 Are always too dear; 
 Humbugs look askant 
 
 When Robert is near ; 
 For the friends he regards. 
 
 His friendship is stable, 
 And pilgrims and bards 
 
 Find a seat at his table. 
 
 [ 32 ] 
 
He has won a good name 
 
 By actions that bless ; 
 The bauble of fame 
 
 Never caused him distress.; 
 A toast to his birthday, 
 
 We wish him good cheer; 
 May Peace and Love stay 
 
 With him, many a year. 
 
 [ 33 ] 
 
EICHE-RUHE 
 
 To my friend, J. U. W., Pasadena, Cal. 
 
 Glad summer days in the shade of the oak, 
 
 By the dearest of homes and friendships true ; 
 To-night from the past I old pictures evoke, 
 When thinking of you. 
 
 In those golden days when cherries were red. 
 And in bloom were flowers of many a hue ; 
 Their beauty brightened each garden bed, 
 When sitting by you. 
 
 Those peaceful hours I shared your hopes — 
 
 Father and mother and darling boys ; 
 'Tis well then unread were the horoscopes 
 Now marring our joys. 
 
 You found a home by the calm sea coast, 
 In a sunshine land with prospects new ; 
 Thought followed you still — the past a ghost — 
 And away from you. 
 
 A house of peace beyond peaks of snow ; 
 
 Below, the arroyo. How grand. the view ! 
 There sleep the loved of the long ago ; 
 And alone are you. 
 
 Here a garden of beauty we oft recall ; 
 
 There is one as fair you daily see ; 
 In the Garden of God transcending all — 
 The meeting will be. 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
TO A VOYAGER BOUND FOR THE ORIENT 
 
 While the steamship is toiling and rolling, 
 
 As you skirt the African shore, 
 The thought that is most consoling 
 
 Is, when your long journey is o'er, 
 You are not on the wild waves bowling. 
 
 And will be thankful as never before. 
 That you hear the church bells tolling, 
 
 As you sit by your own back door. 
 
 'Twixt the garden grounds and the distance, 
 
 There, trees of rare beauty grow ; 
 They gladden your whole existence 
 
 In the seasons of sunshine or snow. 
 Let the lonely palm be forgotten. 
 
 And the weary sands you explore. 
 Let the garden and flowers be oft thought on. 
 
 That you see from your own back door. 
 
 O ! why did a restless yearning 
 
 Make you sail the salt seas o'er ; 
 Now, tired of the billows surging. 
 
 And of people who only bore, — 
 Seek a calm that is full of blisses, 
 
 Seek a peace that is ever in store — 
 One, that she who wanders misses, 
 
 And 'tis found at your own back door. 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
Come back to home and to neighbors, 
 
 To those who love you the best ; 
 They will hail you with harps and tabors, 
 
 When you return to the West. 
 And the flowers and the birds will greet you. 
 
 And the sunsets that you adore ; 
 Dear friends will joyfully meet you 
 
 As you sit by your own back door. 
 
 tF?¥ 
 
 <o^ 
 
 [ 36.] 
 
TO RABBI FALK AND MRS. FALK ON THEIR 
 SILVER WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 
 
 The day that made two hearts unite, 
 
 Has had its annual round ; 
 And every year brings fresh delight, 
 
 Where love and faith are crowned — 
 
 'Till now at length the march of life. 
 Through hopes, griefs, joys, and fears. 
 
 Have brought you, happy man and wife, 
 To five and twenty years. 
 
 Your children blossomed by your hearth, 
 And peace has blessed your home ; 
 
 While from the distant parts of earth 
 To you have friendships come. 
 
 The truths the good and wise have taught 
 
 Have unto you been dear ; 
 No promised land afar you sought — 
 
 For you have found it here. 
 
 True hospitality of mind 
 
 Has opened every place ; 
 The brotherhood the generous find 
 
 Barred not by creed or race. 
 
 The kindly thought, the hand to reach 
 Where hopes and friends are few ; 
 
 The charity all gospels teach. 
 Has found a voice in you. 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
A GOOD MAN'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 J. D. L. 
 
 He works for others, — 
 
 Happy task ! 
 All men his brothers ; 
 
 Do not ask 
 His age to-day, 
 But only say 
 It matters not. 
 The good he sought, 
 Great things he wrought — 
 Results that stay ; 
 Love lit his way — 
 A blessed lot. 
 
 The love that shone 
 Will light him on ; 
 Small change for him 
 When eyes grow dim 
 And birthdays cease ; 
 An angel's call 
 Will softly fall,— 
 Then joy and peace 
 Where love is all. 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
GLEN IRIS POEMS 
 
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 [ 40 ] 
 
GLEN IRIS, the home of Hon. William 
 Pryor Letchworth, LL. D., is in Wyoming 
 County, New York, on the west bank of the 
 Genesee River and overlooking the Middle 
 Fall. Here, the owner, — when not absent on 
 philanthropic work, — has resided for over half 
 a century ; from time to time adding to his 
 property, improving and beautifying it, until 
 landscape art, added to nature's bounty, has 
 made it the delight of all lovers of natural 
 scenery. 
 
 Within the estate are the Upper, Middle, and 
 Lower Falls of the Genesee River, and several 
 fine cascades. The river bank and the heights 
 are covered with a rare variety of trees, shrubs, 
 plants, and flowers, and on the well-tilled farms 
 are orchards, wheat fields, meadows, and rich 
 pasture land. 
 
 The geologist,botanist, and ornithologist have 
 here rich fields in which to make their investi- 
 gations. Artists find pictures already made 
 for them to copy, and poets inspiration for 
 their verse. There is no other place in this 
 country, known to me, about which so many 
 poems have been written. These, finely illus- 
 trated, are printed in an artistic volume, 
 "Voices of the Glen." The Indian Council 
 House, formerly in Canadea, Allegany County, 
 was moved to Glen Iris and here the Last 
 Indian Council on the Genesee was held in 
 October, 1872. Near by is the grave of Mary 
 Jemison, the famous white captive, and her 
 log cabin. Other objects of interest are found 
 in a well-arranged museum. 
 
 [ 41 ] 
 
This wonderful estate of one thousand acres 
 was deeded by Mr. Letchworth to the State of 
 New York, December 31, 1906, to be preserved 
 forever as a "Public Park and Reservation." 
 Its land and water, the latter "The Soul of the 
 Landscape," will be under the protection and 
 care of The American Scenic and Historic 
 Preservation Society, which insures for posterity 
 the careful preservation of this magnificent 
 property. 
 
 [ 42 ] 
 
[ 44 ] 
 
A MEMORY 
 
 Bright summer dream of white cascade, 
 
 Of lake, and wood, and river. 
 The vision from the eye may fade, 
 The heart keeps it forever. 
 There beauty dwells 
 In rarest dells, — 
 There every leaf rejoices ; 
 By cliff and steep, 
 By crag and deep. 
 You hear their pleasant voices. 
 
 From forest flower and meadow bloom, 
 
 (T 
 
 The soft wind, passing over. 
 Brings the wild roses' fresh perfume. 
 The sweet breath of the clover; 
 
 And odors rare 
 
 Pulse through the air, 
 In waves of pleasure flowing. 
 
 We dream away 
 
 The passing day. 
 Regardless of its going. 
 
 On leafy boughs the sunlight glows, 
 
 The skies are blue above us, 
 The happy laugh that comes and goes 
 Is from the friends who love us. 
 
 O ! bliss combined 
 
 Of sense and mind, 
 Rare boon to mortals given. 
 
 Before our eyes 
 
 Is Paradise, 
 Above the blue is heaven. 
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
Take, Memory, to thy choicest shrine, 
 
 And guard as sacred treasure. 
 The hours of ecstasy divine. 
 The days of untold pleasure. 
 
 Though many a scene 
 
 May come between, 
 In way of future duty, 
 
 We still shall deem 
 
 Our summer dream. 
 As peerless in its beauty. 
 
 [ 46 ] 
 
[ 48 ] 
 
THERE'S A BEAUTIFUL SPOT BY THE WILD 
 GENESEE 
 
 There's a beautiful spot by the wild Genesee, 
 
 Where blend the sublime and romantic ; 
 O! there is not a scene so lovely, I ween. 
 
 From the Oregon to the Atlantic. 
 Come, thou sprite of the deep, where the white waters leap. 
 
 Whose office to aid and inspire is. 
 That we picture the green, the shadow and sheen, 
 
 Of the landscape surrounding Glen Iris ; 
 
 Show the fields on the uplands all golden with grain, 
 
 The orchards with fruits overladen ; 
 The green forest trees as they sway in the breeze — 
 
 Which is pure as the incense of Eden, — 
 And the river below, passing on in its flow. 
 
 Now calm as the sunlight that flushes. 
 Now into the verge of the fathomless gorge, 
 
 A silvery torrent, it rushes : 
 
 Here the cliflfs' dizzy heights in their fearfulness hang, 
 
 Where the birds in their aeries are dwelling. 
 There down the abyss the weird waters hiss. 
 
 Or over the ledges are swelling ; 
 And the caverns yawn wide on the precipice side. 
 
 Where never a sunbeam is slanted ; 
 O! we gaze upon all, river, landscape, and fall, 
 
 Till the heart and the eye are enchanted. 
 
 [ 49 ] 
 
The spell must be broken; dear valley, farewell. 
 
 Farewell, too, thou wild-flowing river. 
 But a life-happy thought of the joys by thee brought, 
 
 Will be a glad presence forever. 
 And should the days come, ere journeying home, 
 
 When the heart's wish from care to retire is, 
 Heaven send it may be by the dear Genesee, 
 
 And the waters and woods of Glen Iris. 
 
 [ 50 ] 
 
[ 52 ] 
 
REST 
 
 Nature rewards a friendly eye — 
 Reveals herself to sympathy, 
 But coldly meets the passer-by. 
 
 And he who'd win her peerless grace, 
 Or scan the fairness of her face, 
 Must seek her in her dwelling-place. 
 
 The rifted clouds are snowy-fleeced. 
 The gorgeous sun ascends the east — 
 A fiery-vestured Orient priest. 
 
 The pine-tops glisten in his glow, 
 
 The brooks are burnished in their flow, 
 
 A brightness rests on all below : 
 
 On leaf-roofed nook and wooded ridge. 
 On cataract and lofty bridge, 
 Down to the kindly water's edge; 
 
 Away from selfish, narrow schemes, 
 Where cheerful sunshine ever beams, 
 In hallowed rest my spirit dreams. 
 
 From human strife and wordy brawls, 
 I list to Nature's pleasant calls. 
 And drink the joy of waterfalls. 
 
 A halo rests on rock and tree, 
 A glory flits across the lea — 
 God's work in beauty robed, I see ; 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
While upward mounts the smoking spray, 
 Soft airs about my temples play, 
 And breezes kiss the heat away. 
 
 Beyond the river's graceful leap. 
 Where curving segments seek the deep, 
 The shining waters downward creep. 
 
 The sky bends o'er us crystal clear. 
 No tokened wraith of storm is near, 
 And yet God's covenant is here ! 
 
 The earth is full of symphonies — 
 Leaf-rustles and the hum of bees. 
 And sounds like roar of distant seas. 
 
 Love's curtain shuts the past, so grim ; 
 No future cometh dark or dim — 
 In present bliss the senses swim. 
 
 Calm's finger resteth on the air, 
 Peace dwelleth on the waters there. 
 And rest abideth everywhere. 
 
 [ 54 ] 
 
[ 56 ] 
 
THE HAPPY VALLEY 
 
 I 
 The shady woods of Wyoming are pleasant as of old, 
 The distant fields of Livingston are clothed in green and gold, 
 The orchard fruit is hanging low on many a burdened tree, 
 And through its rock-bound battlements flows down the 
 
 Genesee ; 
 While above the roar of waters, and beneath the summer skies, 
 In all its peerless beauty there the happy valley lies ! 
 
 II 
 
 White clouds of incense slowly rise above the sparkling fall. 
 The lovely Iris o'er it rests — a gorgeous coronal; 
 And no sound of weary clamor, of workshop or of forge. 
 Breaks the murmur of the wild cascade that flashes down the 
 
 gorge ; 
 O, our hearts forget their sorrow, as we feast our eager eyes 
 Where below in all its beauty there the happy valley lies. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The calmness of the lotus-land is round us everywhere. 
 There's music in the waterfall, there's gladness in the air ; 
 We sit beneath the shadows now, and watch the drowsy mill. 
 Or hark the wild kingfisher's cry, the crow's caw on the hill ; 
 There the beech and stately fir-tree in crowning glory rise, 
 And below in peerless beauty still the happy valley lies. 
 
 [ 57 ] 
 
IV 
 
 O, fairest of all rivers, how often to our thought, 
 In the city's heated tumult, hast thou refreshing brought, 
 Beyond the storied waters — the Avon and the Rhine — 
 While our hearts have leaped exultingly, as thrilled by olden 
 
 wine; 
 Again we view thy age-worn cliffs, rich with the sunset-dyes. 
 And still in peerless beauty there the happy valley lies. 
 
 Ye woods and fields, be ever glad in sunshine and in snow. 
 Bend o'er the deep in loveliness, thou many-tinted bow ; 
 Flow on, fair fiver, in thy course, and carry joy abroad ; 
 Sweet valley, from thy bosom send thanksgivings up to God ; 
 Look down in loving-kindness still, ye clear, benignant skies. 
 And angels guard the sacred spot where dear Glen Iris lies ! 
 
 [ 58 ] 
 

 [ 60 ] 
 
A PICTURE 
 
 A peaceful glen shut in by wooded heights ; 
 
 A river rushing through its rock-cut walls ; 
 Bright summer days and moon-illumined nights ; 
 
 The sweeping solemn surge of waterfalls. 
 
 Cloud-shadows flitting over distant glades ; 
 
 Trees many-hued, a hundred cool retreats; 
 Brooks flashing downward into white cascades ; 
 
 Light evening zephyrs fresh with forest sweets. 
 
 A tree-encircled lawn above a dell ; 
 
 An orchard slope, rare tufts of fragrant flowers ; 
 A happy home where love and duty dwell, 
 
 And joy prevails through all the changing hours. 
 
 [ 61 ] 
 
TO M. F. 
 
 At Glen Iris, October, 1899. 
 
 Above, the stately pines parade, 
 
 The sumachs burn below ; 
 The river and the glad cascade 
 
 Make music as they flow. 
 
 Bright colors are on vine and tree, 
 
 With Indian summer haze, 
 And happy thoughts come back to me 
 
 Of joyous autumn days, — 
 
 When loving hearts were in the "Glen"- 
 
 Old friends forever dear ; 
 O ! would that they who met me then, 
 
 Were now with Mary here. 
 
 Ye spirits of this vale of rest — 
 
 The gifted and the true, 
 Welcome to-day a stranger guest, 
 
 For she is kin to you. 
 
 tKl 
 
 C-^\\//W 
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
[ 64 ] 
 
TO GLEN IRIS 
 
 The home at Portage, N. Y., of the Honorable William Pryor Letchworth, 
 LL. D., the widely known Author and Philanthropist. 
 
 For all the magic by thy master wrought, 
 
 In working out on thee this bounteous scheme, 
 And making thee an artist-poet's dream, — 
 
 For friendship's sweet repose, exalted thought, 
 
 And generous welcome, ever unforgot, 
 
 Thy summer woods, the moonlight on the stream, 
 With all the memories that rise supreme, — 
 
 Dear Glen, for these alone I love thee not. 
 
 Thy master's weary years of ceaseless care 
 To aid the sick, the hapless one to seek, — 
 His voice of mercy pleading for the weak, — 
 
 His word of hope to brighten dark despair, — 
 
 His potent message helpful everywhere, — 
 
 For these I love thee most and these forever speak. 
 
 [ 65 ] 
 
DONEGAL MEMORIES 
 
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 1 
 
 
 1 
 
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 1 
 
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 [ 69 ] 
 
LONGINGS 
 
 I am weary of the summer heat, 
 
 Of looking out on the city street — 
 
 Of the sad, worn looks of the people I meet, 
 
 And I long for the ocean's roar ; 
 For the salt sea air and to wander away 
 O'er the heathery heights of Sheep Haven Bay, 
 
 And the fields of Cashelmore. 
 
 I long to stand where the sea-birds call. 
 By Horn Head's steep and rocky wall. 
 And watch the great waves break and fall ; 
 
 For there's life on the hills and life by the sea, 
 And voices forever are calling to me 
 From the wilds of Donegal ! 
 
 [ 71 ] 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 Land of rare beauties, old land of Tyrconnel, 
 Through all the years gone fond memories stay ; 
 
 Where once ruled the brave Sweeney, the valiant O'Donnell — 
 Dear land of my childhood, I see you to-day. 
 
 Salt waters still lave the shores of Lough Swilly ; 
 
 Tides ebb and flow in great Sheep Haven Bay, 
 Green vales, and dark uplands, heathclad and hilly. 
 
 You stand now before me, I see you to-day. 
 
 On the strand of Tramore I've watched the waves speeding; 
 
 O'er the bent-sprinkled sand hills did joyously stray ; 
 Above their deep burrows the rabbits were feeding ; 
 
 Is Tolly hill green in the winter to-day ? 
 
 When north winds were fierce and billows were soaring, 
 O'er Horn Head's sharp crags was a wondrous display — 
 
 McSweeney's Gun booming, far heard was its roaring ; 
 Now rare is its thunder, low booms it to-day. 
 
 The leas and the daisies, the sweet hawthorn hedges 
 With violet and primrose to brighten the way ; 
 
 Some close by the roadside, some up the steep ledges — 
 In past years they blossomed, I see them to-day. 
 
 The mist in the morning up Muckish was creeping ; 
 
 The mill on the Cloon partly hid by the spray ; 
 Upon the swift mill-wheel white waters were leaping ; 
 
 I watched them with wonder and see them to-day. 
 
 [ 72 ] 
 
The spry Irish boys and the girls at the dances ; 
 
 The fairs and the frolics, lives blithesome and gay ; 
 The weddings and convoys, life's changes and chances 
 
 Old joys and old sorrows are with me to-day ; 
 
 Again by the turf fire I hear the wheels whirring ; 
 
 The spinners' light lilt, or the singers' sweet lay ; 
 Thoughts of my neighbors my heart deep are stirring - 
 
 Lost forms and lost faces are with me to-day.. 
 
 
 [ 73 ] 
 
EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS 
 
 Perchance some one may turn his thoughts to-night 
 To that dear land where first he saw the light ; 
 Again he hears the cuckoo's distant cry, 
 The hidden lark's sweet music in the sky, 
 In fields of grain the lusty corncrake's calls, 
 From hazelwoods the linnet's clear note falls. 
 How fair the lea with daisies and each edge 
 Rich with fragrance by the hawthorn hedge ; 
 Who breathing once their odours can forget 
 The primrose, wall-flower, and blue violet, 
 Or meadow-sweet, or woodbine rich perfume — 
 Bright yellow gorse and heather's purple bloom. 
 When hope was high and life with us was young. 
 We then heard songs that have not since been sung ; 
 For Nature then was prodigal, and we 
 Saw on her face what we no more can see. 
 
 [ 74 ] 
 
[ 76 ] 
 
GARTAN 
 
 The exile from Tyrconnel land, 
 Takes with him over the sea, 
 Visions of beauty of ocean and strand, 
 Of lough and river and lea ; — 
 
 But none moves his heart with a tenderer thrill 
 Than a spot near Gartan glen and the hill 
 Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 
 
 Rugged and grand is the mountain view. 
 
 Green the turf by valley and lake. 
 Where the wonderful boy in wisdom grew, 
 Then left them for Christ's dear sake ; 
 He made of lona a sanctified site. 
 He planted the cross on lowland and height, 
 And to Gael and Briton gave gospel light. 
 
 Centuries many, since, have gone, 
 Yet his name it faileth not ; — 
 It is honored in every clime and zone 
 Where Christian truth is taught; 
 
 And pilgrims from far are journeying still 
 To that sacred spot near lake and hill — 
 Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 
 
 [ m ] 
 
CREESLOUGH FAIR 
 
 If you have never been to a Creeslough Fair, 
 Nor had a look at the doings there, 
 In the olden time — Lammas or May — 
 You have missed a rousing holiday. 
 'Tis a pleasant task once more to recall 
 The buying and selling by Hasting's Wall ; 
 Where to cheer the heart and banish care. 
 Crowds gathered from far to the Creeslough Fair 
 
 They came from Fanad, Glen and Castle Doe; 
 From Cloughaneely and around Myroe; 
 From Ramelton and all along the Lennon, 
 Letterkenny, Milford, and Kilmacrenan ; 
 On horse, on foot, on loaded cart, 
 From Dunfanaghy, Fougher, Derryart; 
 By the side of Muckish, past Crinesmair ; — 
 They traveled in groups to the Creeslough Fair. 
 
 Sturdy farmers, children from school ; 
 Housewives bringing spun lint and wool ; 
 Young men and the girls they most did prize, 
 With a wealth of hair and dangerous eyes — 
 Black, blue, or brown — there was always peril 
 In going to a fair with a Donegal girl. 
 For full many a match came unaware 
 And two hearts made one at a Creeslough Fair. 
 
 [ 78 ] 
 
r 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
There were donkeys, horses, foals and mares. 
 Cows, heifers and calves, bullocks in pairs ; 
 Sharp drovers, tinkers, and keen farmer boys 
 Buying and selling with hand-clap and noise; — 
 The seller extolling the best that he could 
 The beast that the buyer pronounced no goodj 
 As he looked in its mouth with a nonchalant air. 
 But at last closed the deal at the Creeslough Fair. 
 
 There was the man who auctioned goods down. 
 Who began at a guinea and dropped to a crown ; 
 Then seeing the buyers to bid were unwilling, 
 Let the bargain go at last for a shilling. 
 There were hawkers with much that a housewife needs — 
 Cutlery, spools, pins, needles, and beads; 
 Some spent all the money they had to spare. 
 Buying odds and ends at the Creeslough Fair. 
 
 Others, whose minds did on booklore dwell. 
 
 Could find in the stalls what suited them well ; 
 
 Seven Champions, Shiel's Shamrock, volumes of song, 
 
 Grim tales of murder, old fights that went wrong ; 
 
 While the ballad singers would solemn relate 
 
 A shipwreck at sea, or a false lover's fate, 
 
 Erin's past, her hope and her despair — 
 
 And the songs reached the hills from the Creeslough Fair. 
 
 [ 81 ] 
 
When the buying and selling were over and done, 
 The time then arrived for the frolic and fun ; 
 In the inns for refreshment luck-money was paid, 
 Old friendships renewed and new ones were made ; 
 Near the jugglers were sparrers entering the lists, 
 Harlequins, puppets, and ventriloquists ; 
 Irish pipers a-playing, trained dogs, dancing bears, 
 And proud, peerless "peelers" parading the fairs. 
 
 Dear homes where the patient toilers be, 
 Where is heard the ceaseless voice of the sea ; 
 Your fields are stony, minds oft distressed. 
 But with love in the heart there is peace and rest ; 
 Your sons and daughters new lives have planned 
 Away in a kind and generous land ; — 
 Yet ofttimes they long for the mountain air, 
 Old joys, and a day at the Creeslough Fair. 
 
 [ 82 ] 
 
[ 84 ] 
 
THE SAND EEL STRAND 
 
 The tide is low in Sheep Haven Bay, 
 And the harvest moon high stands, 
 
 As a joyful company hastens away 
 To cross to the sand eel strands. 
 
 They pass o'er the gullet in curragh and yawl — 
 
 The tide is nearing its flow ; 
 Into creel and basket the shining fish fall, 
 
 And the bar is roaring below ! 
 
 The raven croaks on the garden wall ; 
 
 There's a rush of the inflowing tide ; 
 The boats are all gone, unheard is the call, 
 
 And the channel grows deep and wide. 
 
 Lustily back the oarsmen pull — 
 
 Hope shouts from the shadowy land. 
 
 Too late ! for only the cry of the gull 
 Is heard o'er the sand eel strand. 
 
 Hopeless of aid from the distant shore, 
 
 They plunge in the waters deep ; 
 The moan of the surf and the bar's deep roar 
 
 Are their dirge as they fall asleep. 
 
 When the sun next shines on meadow and corn, 
 And the weepers kneel down to pray — 
 
 Across the wrack the dead are borne 
 To the shore of Sheep Haven Bay. 
 
 [ 85 ] 
 
FAME 
 
 ** I have written my name on water." 
 
 There's a murky pool hid from the strand 
 
 By banks where the daisies grow ; 
 But near it the currachs never land, 
 
 Nor by it the fishermen go ; — 
 For there in a time that is far away, 
 
 A suicide's body was found, 
 And all who pass it whispering say, 
 
 " In that water a man was drowned." 
 
 The heather blooms on the hills about ; 
 
 Beyond are the hazel woods ; 
 The tide comes in and the tide goes out 
 
 And makes glad the solitudes. 
 Within there are rocks and marshy grass 
 
 That border the water around ; 
 But a shudder is felt by all who pass — 
 
 For there a man was drowned. 
 
 In it forlorn and shrunken shrimps 
 
 Move languidly to and fro ; 
 They look like a troop of imprisoned imps 
 
 In the bog-stained water below ; — 
 The children passing along to school, 
 
 Start up with a sudden bound, 
 As they turn and see the accursed pool. 
 
 In which a man was drowned. 
 
 [ 86 ] 
 
Was it the act of a frenzied brain 
 
 Grown weary of life's stern task ? 
 No answer comes to the query again, 
 
 And in vain the questioners ask ; 
 Others kept a faith that brightened the hearth, 
 
 And were strong though fortune frowned — 
 Their names are forgotten on the earth. 
 
 While lives his name who was drowned. 
 
 His story is known to all who live near, 
 
 For his act recorded his name ; 
 He sought for death in madness and fear. 
 
 And his life was ended in shame ; — 
 Forgotten his friends by hillside and shore, 
 
 They have speedy oblivion found ; 
 While his name is recorded forevermore. 
 
 On the water where he was drowned. 
 
 [ 87 ] 
 
[ 88 ] 
 
i 
 
 'f 
 
 
 [ 90 ] 
 
THE WRECK OF THE FRIGATE SALDANA 
 
 In Ballymastocker Bay, Lough Swilly, December 4, 1811. 
 
 Tempest tossed and ever thwarted ; 
 
 Sails torn asunder, cordage parted ; 
 
 Great guns broken from their lashings ; 
 
 Split spars falling, constant crashings ; 
 
 Terror stalking, bells a-tolling; 
 
 North and west great billows rolling ; — 
 
 All around a whirl of waters 
 
 Bow and deck and broadside batters ; 
 
 From Malin Head to treacherous Torry, 
 
 Leeward rocks and prospects sorry ; 
 
 Packenham from these scenes terrific. 
 
 Vainly sought a port pacific ; 
 
 In the wild tempestuous weather 
 
 Down went ship and crew together — 
 
 On the sharp rocks, sunken, battered. 
 
 Three hundred seamen drowned and scattered. 
 
 When the wind and tide had shifted, 
 
 Only the captain shoreward drifted ; — 
 
 He of all the men ill-fated. 
 
 Found a graveyard consecrated : 
 
 Near cornfields, meads, and prospects hilly ; 
 
 By the passing tides of the shadowy Swilly, 
 
 In fair Rathmullen beyond Buncrana, 
 
 Rests Packenham of the Saldana. 
 
 [ 91 ] 
 
ROBERT BERMINGHAM CLEMENTS 
 
 Fourth Earl of Leitrim. 
 
 By his people beloved, as all records show, 
 
 He lightened their burdens, he lessened their woe ; 
 
 His fame resounds beyond Fanad and Doe. 
 
 He passed through the land guarded from peril — 
 For man and woman and boy and girl 
 Honored and loved the generous earl. 
 
 He brought traffic and gain to the farmer's door ; 
 He brightened the lot of the suffering poor ; 
 His name will last while the hills endure. 
 
 The works he wrought and the deeds by him done 
 Will be prized while the tides of Mulroy run. 
 Or great Sheep Haven Bay reflects the sun. 
 
 Too soon removed in his manhood's pride. 
 There was sorrow o'er all the country side. 
 And a solemn lament when the kind earl died. 
 
 As they bore him away to his burial place, 
 The sadness that spake on each mourner's face 
 Showed love can bring union of faith and race. 
 
 When wayfarers tarry at Carrigart 
 
 By his cross — a prayer, or a tear will start 
 
 For the earl who had a true Irish heart. 
 
 [ 92 ] 
 
Photo by John Henderson, Esq. 
 
 I 94 ] 
 
A BOY'S FISHING 
 
 It was lonesome to be fishing out on the Benagormes, 
 
 And with no fish a-biting there to stay — 
 Watching the changing clouds take on such dreadful forms 
 
 On the ever-restless surface of the bay. 
 
 And see the fish a-flashing in the clear sea below — 
 Yellow, red and blue, but never a hook took they ; 
 
 While a seal sat before him, a-coming with the flow — 
 Her looks so like a woman's, he wished she'd swim away. 
 
 The Seeans were not feeding, there were signs of coming 
 storms. 
 
 The hunger-pain within him, and the evening growing gray. 
 And it being a wild and lonesome spot out by the Benagormes, 
 
 He thought it wise to hurry off", and fish some other day. 
 
 LITTLE NORA 
 
 Written for Mrs. G. B. M. 
 
 I would like to go to the bullberry brae. 
 Where the biggest bullberries be ; 
 
 But I fear there is danger on the way, 
 And harm might come to me. 
 
 I'll take three drinks from the holy spring 
 
 And then I can wander free ; 
 May dance and sing in the fairy ring 
 
 And around the wild rowan tree. 
 
 I will string with berries cushags ten, 
 And if sheegies I happen to see — 
 
 One I will give to the Little Men 
 And they will be good to me. 
 
 [ 95 ] 
 
SHAN 
 
 Where a cabin once was found, 
 
 Long since razed to the ground, — 
 
 Lived with Giley brave old Shan, 
 
 Who was a fine old Irishman, — 
 
 Was a kindly friend and neighbor, 
 
 Patient, faithful at his labor ; — 
 
 Plowed and planted, sowed the seed, 
 
 Tilled his garden free of weed ; 
 
 Led the swaying scythe-men on. 
 
 As mowers moved in echelon ; 
 
 And often when his toil was o'er 
 
 In summer, by his cabin door. 
 
 While tarried the soft evening light, 
 
 Or by the blaze on winter's night, 
 
 Like some old bard of ancient fame. 
 
 Would through the smoke in Erse declaim 
 
 A legend, ballad, stirring story. 
 
 Of Irish deeds and old-time glory. 
 
 Then turning to the hearers nigh. 
 
 As one awaked, in English cry, 
 
 " Ireland's deliverance is nigh." 
 
 I see him now with outstretched hand. 
 
 While wondering neighbors listening stand. 
 
 (31? 
 
 px5 
 
 m^ 
 
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
[ 98 ] 
 
TO HON. WILLIAM PRYOR LETCHWORTH, LL.D. 
 
 — The well-known Philanthropist and Author — On presenting him with a pot of 
 heather, by M. J. and J. N. J., on April seventeenth, 1907, 
 
 Dim the year and far away, 
 When you rode that matchless day 
 
 In the summer weather — 
 Saw the shadows flit and play 
 Far o'er wide Sheep Haven Bay, 
 
 And sunshine on the heather. 
 
 * Your mercy-mission we recall, 
 And journey through lone Donegal, 
 
 Past Cashel — upper, nether ; 
 A whispering air, a sense of awe, 
 A mystery in all you saw. 
 
 And fairies in the heather. 
 
 Three mountain summits to the west. 
 An ocean north of drear unrest ; 
 
 Here fancy feels no tether — 
 It speeds beyond to realms unseen, 
 Passing o'er fields of emerald green, 
 
 And tracts of blooming heather. 
 
 The hazy hills, the moorland streams 
 Appeared as in a land of dreams ; 
 
 And birds of varied feather ; 
 Legends came back, old Celtic lays, 
 Myths, mighty deeds of bygone days. 
 
 And sunshine on the heather ! 
 
 * Note. — Mr. Letchworth in 1880 was in Ireland making an official inspection of 
 institutions. 
 
 [ 99 ] 
 
The fleeting seasons will not stay ; 
 Life grows wearisome and gray ; 
 
 Great hearts have worked together - 
 The glory of their speech and pen 
 Has brightened lives of suffering men 
 
 As sunshine lights the heather. 
 
 [ 100 ] 
 
From a painting by George Winter Roberta, Alden, N. Y. 
 
 [ 102 ] 
 
THE CAOINE* 
 
 The fishing smacks at Downing's lay, 
 The sea and the air were still ; 
 
 Sunshine and joy and the warmth of May 
 By the side of Granua's Hill. 
 
 The lark sang near the cornfield's edge. 
 The finch on the hawthorn's crest ; 
 
 Wild flowers were blooming by the hedge, 
 And an Irish sky at rest. 
 
 Calm and peace o'er wood and lea. 
 
 Save a distant cuckoo's call ; 
 O, years of bliss ! it was good to be, 
 
 Such a morning in Donegal — 
 
 To feel the pulse of life beat high, 
 
 And breathe earth's fragrant breath ; — 
 
 With love and youth and hope so nigh, 
 Afar were sorrow and death. 
 
 From the vale below, by mound and cross, 
 
 Arose a funeral wail — 
 The piercing cry of love and loss 
 
 From the stricken heart of the Gael. 
 
 Then all the sunshine and beauty fled. 
 And left were the anguish and thrill 
 
 That came with that wailing for the dead. 
 As it passed o'er Granua's Hill. 
 
 ♦ The Keen, now rarely heard, is passing away. 
 
 [ 103 ] 
 
THOUGHTS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
 OF THE LAST STEWART OF ARDS 
 
 O, Cashelmore ! O, Cashelmore ! 
 
 Old home so far away ! 
 To-night I hear the bar's deep roar 
 
 In weird Sheep Haven Bay ! 
 Here, where Niagara's waters flow, 
 
 Near Erie's ice-fringed shore — 
 While ring the bells of Buffalo, 
 
 I think of Cashelmore. 
 
 Its early flowers I eager sought 
 
 And heather-purpled hill — 
 They're pictured ever in my thought — 
 
 Its birds are singing still ! 
 Dear sharers of my boyish hopes, — 
 
 The living now are few — 
 Upon the breezy upland slopes 
 
 Joyous I walked with you. 
 
 I've watched the high tide ebb and flow 
 
 Past rampart banks of green ; 
 The fields from Cloon to Castle Doe 
 
 And rampart lands between. 
 Through woods of Ards when skies were bright 
 
 I've passed from strand to strand, 
 Found at each turn a new delight — 
 
 'Twas an enchanted land. 
 
 [ 104 ] 
 
[ 105 ] 
 
HERE, WHERE NIAGARA'S WATERS FLOW 
 
 [ 107 ] 
 
The peasant long since left his cot ; 
 
 The tiller, forced to roam, 
 In many climes a future sought 
 
 Denied to him at home. 
 Gone, too, the great historic race. 
 
 Its work of beauty done ; 
 Its fair demesne a lonely place, 
 
 O'er which the conies run. 
 
 And Nature keeps a changeless face, 
 
 Whate'er the human lot ; 
 Men come and go, they leave no trace, 
 
 And yet she heedeth not ; 
 The western line still Muckish guards. 
 
 Seas break on grim Horn Head ; 
 Silence and change have come to Ards, 
 
 And its last Stewart dead ! 
 
 Buffalo, New York, U. 8. A. 
 February 2. 1905. 
 
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 [ 109 ] 
 
THE BRIDGE OF CLOON 
 
 I 
 
 A boy in the splendor of June 
 Stood on the Bridge of Cloon ; 
 
 He watched the trout in the pool, 
 The children passing to school ; 
 
 The patient husbandmen go 
 With grist to the mill below ; 
 
 Returning, by horse or with wheel, 
 Each bringing his burden of meal. 
 
 The river swept downward in glee, 
 To meet the incoming sea ; 
 
 Beyond, rose the woods and green swards 
 And the opulent beauty of Ards ; 
 
 The thrilling song of a thrush 
 Came from a neighboring bush ; 
 
 Meadow and tree and flower 
 Rejoiced in that sun-lit hour ; 
 
 Earth and heaven brought joy 
 To the sensitive heart of the boy, 
 
 As he stood, in that far-off June, 
 And dreamed on the Bridge of Cloon. 
 
 H 
 
 By the light of a winter moon 
 He stands on the Bridge of Cloon ; 
 
 [ 110 ] 
 
[ 111 ] 
 
Years of absence and change 
 To him make all things strange ; 
 
 Can this be the river he knew, 
 The mill and the old-time view ? 
 
 No more the great wheel groans, 
 No sound of the circling stones ; 
 
 Mill roofless — all ruin and rust. 
 The faithful miller now dust 
 
 In the chapel yard with the dead, 
 And a faded cross at his head ! 
 
 Patrons at rest — father and son, 
 Sowing, reaping, and grinding done, 
 
 And of all the numberless host 
 Not even a flitting ghost ! 
 
 While out from the spectral sky 
 Comes a wild bird's desolate cry. 
 
 Dark shadows on mountain and lea 
 And the wail of a distant sea — 
 
 And under the pitiless moon 
 
 He, alone, on the Bridge of Cloon ! 
 
 [ 113 ] 
 
THE WOODS OF ARDS 
 
 Neighbors and friends on the soft, green heather, 
 
 By the ruins of Cashel sitting together ; — 
 
 Singing old songs, telling old stories ; 
 
 Watching by Muckish the sunset glories ; 
 
 The bay and the restless sea in the distance, 
 And the woods of Ards with a fond insistence 
 Reaching them there with a loving persistence. 
 
 By rivers, lakes, and western prairies. 
 
 Far from Irish hills and haunts of the fairies ; 
 
 Oft lonely and sad as darkness was falling ; 
 
 The ruins of Cashel and friends recalling ; — 
 
 Then the fair woods of Ards made glad my existence. 
 They followed me still with their loving persistence, 
 And brought me old joys when alone in the distance. 
 
 [ 114 ] 
 
[ "5 ] 
 
^ J » . i j 
 
 [ 117 ] 
 
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