by Moses Teggart, Springfield, Mass. U.S.A. 1900.

Coney Island in Lough Neagh
Embosomed in the smiling bay -
Milltown Bay whose sandy shore
Often I have gambolled o'er,
Burdened not by that I wore.

Furlongs seven from the strand,
From the beach of silver sand,
Lies the round, romantic isle,
Rich in antiquarian pile -
Ruin, cromlech, stone and stile.

There, the warrior knights of old,
Or saintly men of finer mould
Bowed the knee in balmy bowers,
Built their turrets, shrines and towers - 
Shafts that now are crowned with flowers.

There, philosopher may find
Food for retrospective mind;
There, the modern Earl may sleep
His mind in wisdom, or may sweep
His Helena at a glance - and weep.

There, the merry schoolboy may
Roam at random, blithe and gay;
There, the hopeful lover sow
Her name in wallflower that will blow
When love may be a word of woe.

Coney Island, far away,
Fairest jewel in Lough Neagh,
Your have got a namesake here
Which I've never gone anear,
Lest Nature outraged should appear.

Coney Island in Lough Neagh,
Beauty spot of Milltown Bay!
I nor wave nor water note
While around thee lone I float
By moonlight fair in Fancy's boat.

Coney Island doubly fair,
Since thy calm I cannot share,
One of Erin's islands blest,
Oh, that I in thee might rest
When old and weary of the West.

Though in other lands I roam,
From the grassy height at home
Memory sees thee - than the hill
Grander, fairer, greener still,
Dark 'neath skies of daffodil!

For the evening sun goes down
And the light is like a crown,
And the winds are hushed the while
Parting day doth beam and smile
On fairy-haunted Coney Island.


The Belle of Clonmakate

The Belle of Derryagh

The Belle of Derrykeevin

A Birches Boy

Bonnie Mary of Drumcree

Dead at The Birches

Down in Maghery


Lillian Martin

The Lily of Lough Neagh

The Turf Bummer

The Turf Cutter

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