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Donegal Memories 
 
 BY 
 
 James Nicoll Johnston 
 
 ; Those recollected hours that have the charm 
 Of visionary things, those lovely forms 
 And sweet sensations that throw back our life, 
 And almost make remotest infancy 
 A visible scene, on which the sun is shining." 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
 THE MATTHEWS-NORTHRUP WORKS 
 
 BUFFALO, NEW YORK 
 
 MCMVIII 
 
U8RARYofCONe^5S3| 
 Two Copies KeWfw A < I 
 
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UNLESS OTHERWISE ACKNOWL- 
 EDGED. THE PICTURES ARE 
 FROM PHOTOGRAPHS BY JOHN A. 
 BLACK. M. A. (THE KNIGHT OF 
 BLARNEY), BUFFALO. NEW YORK 
 
 Copyright, 1908, by James Nlcoll Johnston 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 LONGINGS, 7 
 
 MEMORIES, 9 
 
 GARTAN, 11 
 
 THE SAND EEL STRAND, 13 
 
 THOUGHTS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF 
 
 THE LAST STEWART OF ARDS, 15, 17 
 
 A BOY'S FISHING, 19 
 
 LITTLE NORA, 19 
 
 THE CAOINE, 21 
 
 TO HON. WILLIAM PRYOR LETCH WORTH, LL. D., 23 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF CLOON, 25,27 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Portrait of Author, 
 
 Doe Castle, Ards Estate, Sheep Haven Bay, 
 
 North Side Lough Swilly, Lagan Beyond, 
 
 columbkille church, gartan, 
 
 Cockle Strand, Carrigart— Ards Woods in the Distance, 12 s 
 
 Glenveagh Castle and Grounds, 14 / 
 
 The Moors near Barnes Gap 16 ' 
 
 Wild Donegal, 18 / 
 
 muckish from the south, 20 
 
 Horn Head, 22 ' 
 
 Creeslough, 24 , 
 
 Bridge of Cloon, 26 /• 
 
 Glenveagh Castle, Lake and Hills, 28 s 
 
 View from Gweedore Hotel, 29 f 
 
 2 
 
 s 
 
 (y 
 
 / 
 
 8 
 
 / 
 
 10 
 
 r 
 
[6] 
 
LONGINGS 
 
 I am weary of the summer heat, 
 
 Of looking out on the city street — 
 
 Of the sad, worn looks of the people I meet, 
 
 And I long for the ocean's roar ; 
 For the salt sea air and to wander away 
 O'er the heathery heights of Sheep Haven Bay, 
 
 And the fields of Cashelmore. 
 
 I long to stand where the sea-birds call, 
 By Horn Head's steep and rocky wall, 
 And watch the great waves break and fall ; 
 
 For there's life on the hills and life by the sea, 
 And voices forever are calling to me 
 From the wilds of Donegal ! 
 
 [ 7 ] 
 
[8] 
 
MEMORIES 
 
 Land of rare beauties, old land of Tyrconnel, 
 Through all the years gone fond memories stay ; 
 
 Where once ruled the brave Sweeney, the valiant O'Donnell — 
 Dear land of my childhood, I see you to-day. 
 
 Salt waters still lave the shores of Lough Swilly ; 
 
 Tides ebb and flow in great Sheep Haven Bay, 
 Green vales, and dark uplands, heathclad and hilly, 
 
 You stand now before me, I see you to-day. 
 
 On the strand of Tramore I've watched the waves speeding ; 
 
 O'er the bent-sprinkled sand hills did joyously stray ; 
 Above their deep burrows the rabbits were feeding; 
 
 Is Tolly hill green in the winter to-day ? 
 
 When north winds were fierce and billows were soaring, 
 O'er Horn Head's sharp crags was a wondrous display — 
 
 McSweeney's Gun booming, far heard was its roaring ; 
 Now rare is its thunder, low booms it to-day. 
 
 The leas and the daisies, the sweet hawthorn hedges 
 With violet and primrose to brighten the way ; 
 
 Some close by the roadside, some up the steep ledges — 
 In past years they blossomed, I see them to-day. 
 
 The mist in the morning up Muckish was creeping ; 
 
 The mill on the Cloon partly hid by the spray ; 
 Upon the swift mill-wheel white waters were leaping ; 
 
 I watched them with wonder and see them to-day. 
 
 The spry Irish boys and the girls at the dances; 
 
 The fairs and the frolics, lives blithesome and gay ; 
 The weddings and convoys, life's changes and chances — 
 
 Old joys and old sorrows are with me to-day ; 
 
 Again by the turf fire I hear the wheels whirring — 
 The spinners' light lilt, or the singers' sweet lay ; 
 
 Thoughts of my neighbors my heart deep are stirring — 
 Lost forms and lost faces are with me to-day. 
 
 [ 9 ] 
 
[ 10] 
 
GARTAN 
 
 The exile from Tyrconnel land, 
 Takes with him over the sea, 
 Visions of beauty of ocean and strand, 
 Of lough and river and lea; — 
 
 But none moves his heart with a tenderer thrill 
 Than a spot near Gartan glen and the hill 
 Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 
 
 Rugged and grand is the mountain view, 
 
 Green the turf by valley and lake, 
 Where the wonderful boy in wisdom grew, 
 Then left them for Christ's dear sake ; 
 He made of Iona a sanctified site, 
 He planted the cross on lowland and height, 
 And to Gael and Briton gave gospel light. 
 
 Centuries many, since, have gone, 
 Yet his name it faileth not; — 
 It is honored in every clime and zone 
 Where Christian truth is taught; 
 
 And pilgrims from far are journeying still 
 To that sacred spot near lake and hill — 
 Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 
 
 [ 11 1 
 

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 [ 12] 
 
THE SAND EEL STRAND 
 
 The tide is low in Sheep Haven Bay, 
 And the harvest moon high stands, 
 
 As a joyful company hastens away 
 To cross to the sand eel strands. 
 
 They pass o'er the gullet in curragh and yawl — 
 
 The tide is nearing its flow ; 
 Into creel and basket the shining fish fall, 
 
 And the bar is roaring below! 
 
 The raven croaks on the garden wall ; 
 
 There's a rush of the inflowing tide; 
 The boats are all gone, unheard is the call, 
 
 And the channel grows deep and wide. 
 
 Lustily back the oarsmen pull — 
 
 Hope shouts from the shadowy land. 
 
 Too late ! for only the cry of the gull 
 Is heard o'er the sand eel strand. 
 
 Hopeless of aid from the distant shore, 
 
 They plunge in the waters deep; 
 The moan of the surf and the bar's deep roar 
 
 Are their dirge as they fall asleep. 
 
 When the sun next shines on meadow and corn, 
 And the weepers kneel down to pray — 
 
 Across the wrack the dead are borne 
 To the shore of Sheep Haven Bay. 
 
 [ 13] 
 
[ 14] 
 
THOUGHTS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
 OF THE LAST STEWART OF ARDS. 
 
 O, Cashelmore! O, Cashelmore! 
 
 Old home so far away ! 
 To-night I hear the bar's deep roar 
 
 In weird Sheep Haven Bay! 
 Here, where Niagara's waters flow, 
 
 Near Erie's ice-fringed shore — 
 While ring the bells of Buffalo, 
 
 I think of Cashelmore. 
 
 Its early flowers I eager sought 
 
 And heather-purpled hill — 
 They're pictured ever in my thought — 
 
 Its birds are singing still! 
 Dear sharers of my boyish hopes, — 
 
 The living now are few — 
 Upon the breezy upland slopes 
 
 Joyous I walked with you. 
 
 I've watched the high tide ebb and flow 
 
 Past rampart banks of green ; 
 The fields from Cloon to Castle Doe 
 
 And Rampart lands between. 
 Through woods of Ards when skies were bright 
 
 I've passed from strand to strand, 
 Found at each turn a new delight— 
 
 'Twas an enchanted land. 
 
 The peasant long since left his cot ; 
 
 The tiller, forced to roam, 
 In many climes a future sought 
 
 Denied to him at home. 
 
 [ 15] 
 
[ 16] 
 
Gone, too, the great historic race, 
 
 Its work of beauty done ; 
 Its fair demesne a lonely place, 
 
 O'er which the conies run. 
 
 And nature keeps a changeless face, 
 
 Whate'er the human lot ; 
 Men come and go, they leave no trace, 
 
 And yet she heedeth not ; 
 The western line still Muckish guards, 
 
 Seas break on grim Horn Head ; 
 Silence and change have come to Ards, 
 
 And its last Stewart dead ! 
 
 Buffalo, New York, U. S. A. 
 February 2, 1905. 
 
 [ 17 ] 
 
From a painting by George Winter Roberts, Alden, N. T. 
 
 [ 18] 
 
A BOY'S FISHING 
 
 It was lonesome to be fishing out on the Benagormes, 
 
 And with no fish a-biting there to stay — 
 Watching the changing clouds take on such dreadful forms 
 
 On the ever-restless surface of the bay. 
 
 And see the fish a-flashing in the clear sea below — 
 Yellow, red and blue, but never a hook took they ; 
 
 While a seal sat before him, a-coming with the flow — 
 Her looks so like a woman's, he wished she'd swim away. 
 
 The Seeans were not feeding, there were signs of coming 
 storms, 
 
 The hunger-pain within him, and the evening growing gray, 
 And it being a wild and lonesome spot out by the Benagormes, 
 
 He thought it wise to hurry off, and fish some other day. 
 
 LITTLE NORA 
 
 Written for Mrs. G. B. M. 
 
 I would like to go to the bullberry brae, 
 Where the biggest bullberries be ; 
 
 But I fear there is danger on the way, 
 And harm might come to me. 
 
 I'll take three drinks from the holy spring 
 And then I can wander free ; 
 
 May dance and sing in the fairy ring 
 And around the wild rowan tree. 
 
 I will string with berries cushags ten, 
 And if sheeg'ies I happen to see — 
 
 One I will give to the Little Men 
 And they will be good to me. 
 
 [ 19 ] 
 
20 
 
THE CAOINE* 
 
 The fishing smacks at Downing's lay, 
 The sea and the air were still ; 
 
 Sunshine and joy and the warmth of May 
 By the side of Granua's Hill. 
 
 The lark sang near the corn-field's edge, 
 The finch on the hawthorn's crest ; 
 
 Wild flowers were blooming by the hedge, 
 And an Irish sky at rest. 
 
 Calm and peace o'er wood and lea, 
 
 Save a distant cuckoo's call ; 
 O, years of bliss! it was good to be, 
 
 Such a morning in Donegal — 
 
 To feel the pulse of life beat high, 
 
 And breathe earth's fragrant breath ; — 
 
 With love and youth and hope so nigh, 
 Afar were sorrow and death. 
 
 From the vale below, by mound and cross, 
 
 Arose a funeral wail — 
 The piercing cry of love and loss 
 
 From the stricken heart of the Gael. 
 
 Then all the sunshine and beauty fled, 
 And left were the anguish and thrill 
 That came with that wailing for the dead, 
 As it passed o'er Granua's Hill. 
 
 * The Keen, now rarely heard, is passing away. 
 
 [21 ] 
 
[22] 
 
TO HON. WILLIAM PRYOR LETCHWORTH, LL. D. 
 
 —The well-known Philanthropist and Author— On presenting him with a pot of heather, 
 by M. J. and J. N. J., on April seventeenth, 1907. 
 
 Dim the year and far away, 
 When you rode that matchless day 
 
 In the summer weather — 
 Saw the shadows flit and play 
 Far o'er wide Sheep Haven Bay, 
 
 And sunshine on the heather. 
 
 Your mercy-mission we recall, 
 
 And journey through lone Donegal, 
 
 Past Cashel — upper, nether; 
 A whispering air, a sense of awe, 
 A mystery in all you saw, 
 
 And fairies in the heather. 
 
 Three mountain summits to the west, 
 An ocean north of drear unrest ; 
 
 Here fancy feels no tether — 
 It speeds beyond to realms unseen, 
 Passing o'er fields of emerald green, 
 
 And tracts of blooming heather. 
 
 The hazy hills, the moorland streams 
 Appeared as in a land of dreams ; 
 
 And birds of varied feather ; 
 Legends came back, old Celtic lays, 
 Myths, mighty deeds of bygone days, 
 And sunshine on the heather ! 
 
 The fleeting seasons will not stay ; 
 Life grows wearisome and gray ; 
 
 Great hearts have worked together — 
 The glory of their speech and pen 
 Has brightened lives of suffering men 
 
 As sunshine lights the heather. 
 
 tore. 
 
 [ 23] 
 
[ 24 ] 
 
THE BRIDGE OF CLOON 
 
 I 
 
 A boy in the splendor of June 
 Stood on the Bridge of Cloon ; 
 
 He watched the trout in the pool, 
 The children passing to school; 
 
 The patient husbandmen go 
 With grist to the mill below; 
 
 Returning, by horse or with wheel, 
 Each bringing his burden of meal. 
 
 The river swept downward in glee, 
 To meet the incoming sea; 
 
 Beyond, rose the woods and green swards 
 And the opulent beauty of Ards; 
 
 The thrilling song of a thrush 
 Came from a neighboring bush ; 
 
 Meadow and tree and flower 
 Rejoiced in that sun-lit hour; 
 
 Earth and heaven brought joy 
 To the sensitive heart of the boy, 
 
 As he stood, in that far-off June, 
 And dreamed on the Bridge of Cloon. 
 
 II 
 
 By the light of a winter moon 
 
 He stands on the Bridge of Cloon ; 
 
 Years of absence and change 
 To him make all things strange ; 
 
 [25] 
 
[ 26 
 
Can this be the river he knew, 
 The mill and the old-time view ? 
 
 No more the great wheel groans. 
 No sound of the circling stones ; 
 
 Mill roofless — all ruin and rust, 
 The faithful miller now dust 
 
 In the chapel yard with the dead, 
 And a faded cross at his head ! 
 
 Patrons at rest — father and son, 
 Sowing, reaping, and grinding done, 
 
 And of all the numberless host 
 Not even a flitting ghost ! 
 
 While out from the spectral sky 
 Comes a wild bird's desolate cry. 
 
 Dark shadows on mountain and lea 
 And the wail of a distant sea — 
 
 And under the pitiless moon 
 
 He, alone, on the Bridge of Cloon ! 
 
 27] 
 
Photo by William Lawrence, Dublin 
 
 [ 28 
 

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