THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE

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, 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 — Adieu to Belashanny, And the winding banks of Erne!

The thrush will call through Camlin groves The live-long summer day; The waters run by mossy cliff, And banks with wild flowers gay; 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 river-side they go, Where I have often been, Oh, never shall I see again The happy days I've seen! A thousand chances are to one I never may return,— Adieu to Belashanny, And the winding banks of Erne!

Adieu to evening dances, When merry neighbours meet, And the fiddle says to boys and girls, ‘ Get up and shake your feet!’ To‘ seanachas’ 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 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!

Now measure from the Commons down To each end of the Purt, 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. My loving friends I'll bear in mind, And often fondly turn To think of Belashanny, And the winding banks of Erne.

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast My golden anchor in the place Where youthful years were pass'd; Though heads that now are black and brown Must meanwhile gather gray, 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.