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38 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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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, tho' my back I'm
forced to turn — So adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of
Erne! |
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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 a-lit, and many a joke
and "yarn "— Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne !
in
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide, When all the green-hill'd harbour is full from side to
side — From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey
Bay, |
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