Portaferry (Ann Murray)

Three men are fishing from a boat moored
At the quayside where
Afternoon sun is dappling the north end
Of Strangford Lough.
Cormorants are resting on island rocks like
Stationed sentinels.
Inland, in the old castle’s demesne
A dog is chasing swallows,
As rain-drops dribble down
Switches of ash and holly.

Children are everywhere, delving
Their growing sun-tanned limbs
Into the corners of stretched- out days,
Their hearty laughter
And their called-out names diluted and
Diminished in the briny air,
Like songbirds besieged by rain.

We, the newly-fangled stop and stare at
What the locals have
Long since taken in:
The moods of the Lough,
Its wayward traits,
The ferryboat, the birds, the buoys,
The light at Ballyquentin Point,
The up-to-the-ear conch shell noise.

Taken with permission from the 'Poetry, Prayer & Praise' blogspot

 Lough Cuan's Shore. (by J.McGrath.)

Oh Eirie's Waves are grand to see

As on and on they roll,

And Hudson's flood will ever be

A rapture to my soul.

But with the rivers snowy spray,

Or with the wild lakes roar,

My heart is not, tis far away,

By loved Lough Cuan's shore.

And shall I ever see again

The old Lough rolling by,

Or stroll along its grassy banks,

Or hear its midnight sigh?

Twas hard enough to say farewell

But sorrows cup flows o'er

To think that I must live and die

Far, far, from Cuan's shore.

Oh heaven above be not so hard,

Let hope regain my breast.

I only ask one poor reward,

Eternally to rest

Within the Churchyard o'er the hill,

Where Shamrock leaves grow o'er,

Beneath the shadow of the Mill

By loved Lough Cuan's shore.

The Walter Shore.(by P.McManus.)

'Twas a glorious eve, when I took my leave

Of sweet Ballyhenry bay.

Not a breath of air broke the calm sea where

The vessels at anchor lay.

While the flowing guide with its waters wide,

On its swift course onward bore,

To the distant sea where I soon should be,

Far,far from the Walter Shore.

The Sun had set, but his bright rays yet

Remained in the amber sky.

While the blackbird's song, as I passed along

'Neath the trees, was loud and high.

And my heart beat fast, as my eyes I cast

O'er scenes that I'd see no more.

So I fondly took a last long look

At the bay, and the Walter Shore.

But alas today I am far away,

And I toil 'neath a broiling sun,

With a weary hand, in a foreign land,

Till my race of life is run,

Still my memory flies back to other skies,

To the bygone scenes of yore,

To the time when i bade a last goodbye

To the bay, and the Walter Shore.

And it often seems to me, in my dreams,

That I'm left this western world,

That I see the bay filled with good ships gay,

And a broad Green Flag unfurled,

That we come in might with weapons bright,

Independence to restore

To our native land, on the wave washed Strand

Of the peerless Walter Shore.

Kearney Mill (P.McManus.)

Away in an ancient town way o'er in the County Down,

Father Dan in the old Mass House he Christened me,

I first saw the light of day, on the hilltops far away

From my adopted home in proud Australia.

Sure my heart is far away,far away,

Where Australian maids are singing night and day,

Where the Indian Ocean rolls along the southern shore

To wash the happy land of proud Australia.

My father owned a bit of land way O'er in Quintin Bay,

But tyranny with ruthless hands forced him far away,

Far away, far away from the Castle and the Bay,

To our adopted home in proud Australia.

Sure my heart is far away, far away,

Where Australian maids are singing night and day,

Where the Indian Ocean rolls along the southern Shore

To wash the happy land of proud Australia.

I've just come on a visit to the place where I was born,

Oh heavens! Where is Kearney Mill, the Miller and the Corn?

Where is the fiddle of old Ned, and is old James McManus dead

Since I crossed the sea to my adopted home in proud Australia.

Sure my heart is far away, far away,

Where Australian maids are singing night and day,

Where the Indian ocean rolls along the southern shore

To wash the happy land of proud Australia.

Portaferry (by Vincent Brannigan.)

There were schooners at the quay in Portaferry,

Sturdy Garston schooners deep with coal,

Battered ships that seemed as silver galleons,

And they left their lustered image in my soul.

Jerseyed men were sitting on the sea wall,

Beating up to Falmouth in their thoughts,

Decks aslant and underfoot the grain load,

With swollen canvas adding up the knots.

Days afloat becalmed on empty water,

And lusty speed with gales ahead,

Seas aboard and men aloft in danger,

Two thousand miles still out from Adelaide.

They did not all come back to Portaferry,

In restless graves they rest beneath the tide,

And dismal screaming seabirds in the wild wind

Keep vigil where the men who sailed had died.

The schooners rot on mudflats at the tide mark,

The jerseyed men are gone who talked to me,

A fussy steamboat thrashing in the tide race

Is turning round, and heading out to sea.

The Road To Cooey's Wells. (William McCarthy.)

There's a place that haunts my memory, that always seems

to stay,

Since I first sought St.Cooey's Wells, one holy Sabbath day,

I trudged the rugged pathway, through woodland hills and dells,

To seek a cure from those waters pure, that flows from Cooey's

Wells.

As I try to pace this awful place, all sinking in decay,

A lone skylark accompanied me that lovely summers day,

Where no brain of man had thought to plan, no human hands had

made it,

Like the endless sea t'was wild and free, as Mother Nature made it.

I crossed the rusty bogland, and tramped through field and fallow,

With many an unseen pitfall set, through water deep and shallow,

Now twenty years have long since gone, since first I made my way,

My footseps are unsteady now, my hair is turning grey.

Since I first sought this place divine, and crossed the hills and

dells,

And trudged that rugged pathway, to St Cooey's Holy Wells,

Today I've wandered back again, as I have often done before,

And again I stand on this barren land by the lonely windswept

shore.

This place still haunts my memory, since first I made my way,

My footsteps are more feeble now, as here I stand today,

No rugged footpath have I crossed, nor climbed the hills and dells,

For the new roadway I've trod to reach the Holy Wells.

Now I write this lay in tribute, this message to convey,

To those gallant men who toiled so hard, this new roadway to lay,

So let us sing their praises high, they toiled but not to gain,

And I believe what they achieved a symbol shall remain.

To the old and young, and everyone, that helped in any way,

We cannot thank them as we should, but we for them can pray,

At last not least our Parish Priests no effort did they spare,

In their devoted way they helped to lay that new made roadway

there.

Now I thank the Lord for every word he gifted me to pen,

Who gave light this day to write to praise those gentlemen,

When memories old our minds unfold throughout the coming years,

Remember them of whom I pen, those gallant Volunteers.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY SCHOOL DAYS

Alexander Girvin McGrattan

1812-1900

Alexander Girvin McGrattan was born in County Down and grew up in Portaferry town. His family immigrated to Ontario, Canada and from there moved to Kansas. In his poem he speaks of Portaferry town very fondly. This poem very kindly supplied by Bonnie Jones, descendant of Alexander in Kansas.

I have come through places of every kind

As I rolled from east to west,

But a pretty place I left behind

I will always mind the best.

And that place lies in Erin Isle,

And the Ards and County Down

Conspicuous: only three miles

From Port-of-Ferry-Town.

For there I spent my youthful days;

Days that I still revere.

I often walked its shady groves,

Bedecked with flowers rare,

Or wandered though the old church yard,

Up to the Castle Hill

Where I viewed the bay from Hiloda

Around to the Bishop's Mill.

In eighteen hundred twenty-five,

A school house there was placed

By a Lady Dorcas Savage,

Being the last of all her race.

And, as she did not limit cost,

It is plain to be seen,

The best school house in allthe North

Was then built in Ardkeen.

At noon when boys went out to play,

I chose some favorite book.

And in pleasant days, with it I strayed

To a pretty, flowery nook;

And lay among the scented vines

And read the noonday hour.

That happy time comes back to mind,

When I smell sweet-scented flowers.

On other days, instead of play

To pass an hour at noon,

I went and placed a bunch of flowers

Upon my father's tomb.

And there sat down beside them,

And prayed with heart-felt sighs

That when life would end, some of my friends

Would place me by his side.

But my Irish friends can't grant that prayer

That so earnestly I craved,

For now 'twill be my Kansas friends

Will place me in my grave.

But if the Soul's not laid to rest

With my body in the green,

Then Heaven's as near to it up here

As it would be in Ardkeen.

Now seventy years have passed and gone,

And I am old and blind

But in comely hours, I think upon

That youthful,happy time.

And though five thousand miles away,

And an ocean lies between,

I remember still, and always will,

My school days at Ardkeen

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