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
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,
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.