Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Ireland: Vol. V. 1876–79.



By James Clarence Mangan (1803–1849)

FAR away from my friends,

On the chill hills of Galway,

My heart droops and bends,

And my spirit pines alway,—

’T is as not when I roved

With the wild rakes of Mallow,—

All is here unbeloved,

And I sigh for Duhallow.

My sweetheart was cold,

Or in sooth I ’d have wept her,—

Ah, that love should grow old

And decline from his sceptre,

While the heart’s feelings yet

Seem so tender and callow!

But I deeplier regret

My lost home in Duhallow!

My steed is no more,

And my hounds roam unyelling;

Grass waves at the door

Of my dark-windowed dwelling.

Through sunshine and storm

Corrach’s acres lie fallow;

Would Heaven I were warm

Once again in Duhallow!

In the blackness of night,

In the depth of disaster,

My heart were more light

Could I call myself master

Of Corrach once more

Than if here I might wallow

In gold thick as gore

Far away from Duhallow!

I loved Italy’s show

In the years of my greenness,

Till I saw the deep woe,

The debasement, the meanness,

That rot that bright land!

I have since grown less shallow,

And would now rather stand

In a bog in Duhallow!

This place I ’m in here,

On the gray hills of Galway,

I like for its cheer

Well enough in a small way;

But the men are all short,

And the women all sallow;

Give M’Quillan his quart

Of brown ale in Duhallow.

My sporting days o’er,

And my love-days gone after,

Not earth could restore

Me my old life and laughter.

Burns now my breast’s flame

Like a dim wick of tallow,

Yet I love thee the same

As at twenty, Duhallow!

But my hopes, like my rhymes,

Are consumed and expended;

What ’s the use of old times

When our time is now ended?

Drop the talk! Death will come

For the debt that we all owe,

And the grave is a home

Quite as old as Duhallow!