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| 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, | 5 |
| 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— | |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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: | 15 |
| Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! | |
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| 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, | |
| From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sandhills grey; | 20 |
| 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! | |
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| Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar, | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| Head out to sea, when on your lee the breakers you discern— | |
| Adieu to all the billowy coast and the winding banks of Erne! | |
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| Farewell, Coolmore, Bundoran! and your summer crowds that run | |
| From inland homes to see with joy the Atlantic setting sun; | |
| To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves; | 35 |
| 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! | 40 |
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| 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 | 45 |
| 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! | |
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| The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day; | |
| The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay; | 50 |
| 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 days that I have seen! | |
| A thousand chances are to one I never may return— | 55 |
| Adieu to Belashanny, and the winding banks of Erne! | |
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| Adieu to evening dances, where merry neighbours meet, | |
| And the fiddle says to boys and girls, “get up and shake your feet!” | |
| To shanachas and wise old talk of Erin’s days gone by | |
| Who trench’d the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie | 60 |
| 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! | |
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| Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt, | 65 |
| 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. | 70 |
| My loving friends I’ll bear in mind, and often fondly turn | |
| To think of Belashanny and the winding banks of Erne! | |
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| If ever I’m a money’d man, I mean, please God, to cast | |
| My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were past; | |
| Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather grey, | 75 |
| 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! | 80 |
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