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.

ABBEY ASAROE

    Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe,
      by Belashanny town,
    It has neither door nor window,
      the walls are broken down;
    The carven-stones lie scatter’d
      in briar and nettle-bed;
    The only feet are those that come
      at burial of the dead. 
    A little rocky rivulet
      runs murmuring to the tide,
    Singing a song of ancient days,
      in sorrow, not in pride;
    The boortree and the lightsome ash
      across the portal grow,
    And heaven itself is now the roof
      of Abbey Asaroe.

    It looks beyond the harbour-stream
      to Gulban mountain blue;
    It hears the voice of Erna’s fall,—­
      Atlantic breakers too;
    High ships go sailing past it;
      the sturdy clank of oars
    Brings in the salmon-boat to haul
      a net upon the shores;
    And this way to his home-creek,
      when the summer day is done,
    Slow sculls the weary fisherman
      across the setting sun;
    While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,
      his cottage white below;
    But gray at every season
      is Abbey Asaroe.