Down In Maghery.

by Moses Teggart. Springfield Mass. June 23 1906


Cabins of the humble poor-
Digger, ditcher, fisherman;
An old white chapel to be sure,
Doing all the good it can;
A thatched white farmhouse or two,
A tavern – Oh the pity! There,
Men should bibber in the brew,
Life betowering anywhere.

An old plank ferry, towed across
Wan Blackwater, over it,
Some for profit some for loss,
Scores of jobbing bodice flit,
Men and cattle from Tyrone,
Lads and colts from Portadown,
Make the place, from nothing grown,
Busy as a market town.
Pollen fresh, by the boatload,
Packed and shipped across the 2say",
Came and "luck2 on them bestowed,
Maghery trollers well repay.
Glower down may that old pile-
Derrywarrach, long time named,
But the wide lough’s sunlit smile,
Seen from Maghery, far is famed.

The fir wood, through which folk pass,
On their way the chapel to,
(Both the roadsides green and grass)
Gleameth back against the blue,
Bogs there are on either hand-
Marley turf in Maghery homes
Torch up,
As in the bogland.
Swiftly blaze up fozy tombs.

Flowers ablcom by stone and wall;
Dasies in wee flower beds;
Hollyhocks, as sunflowers tall;
Poppies lifting scarlet heads
To a sky of sunny blue;
Oats in plots of thirsty sand,
And, in blossom, praties new-
Pith and pride of Ireland.

A little seaport seems the place, 
Smelling times of pitch and tar,
Lough blowing in it’s face,
Dock holes green with gint and glar,-
Yet, to-day, how many hearts,
Far across the briny sea,
Sigh, full sick of foreing parts,
Home in Maghery to Be!


The Belle of Clonmakate

The Belle of Derryagh

The Belle of Derrykeevin

A Birches Boy

Bonnie Mary of Drumcree

Coney Island

Dead at The Birches


Lillian Martin

The Lily of Lough Neagh

The Turf Bummer

The Turf Cutter

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