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



By John Reade (1837–1919)

KILLYNOOGAN,—hallowed name,—

Though thou ’rt little known to fame,

My heart’s homage thou dost claim.

Though to stranger ears thou be

But a word of mystery,

Meaning deep thou hast for me.

All thy quaint old masonry

Now before my eyes I see,

As of old it used to be.

Ah! too well I can recall

Every stone in every wall,—

In my heart I count them all.

And the lawn before the door,

I can see it as of yore,

Bright with daisies spangled o’er.


And the garden full of flowers,

Where I ’ve past romantic hours,

Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.

In the orchard, stretched at ease

On the grass, I hear the breeze

Piping ’mong the apple-trees.

While from many a leafy nook,

Grave as parson at his book,

Rook replieth unto rook.

I can hear the river’s flow

As it murmurs, soft and low,

Bringing news from Pettigo.

I can watch it to the mill,

Where the never-tiring wheel

Dances round and drinks its fill.

Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”

Past the castle of Magra,

Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,

On it goes with many a turn,

Playing with its fringe of fern,

Till it touches broad Lough Erne.