It looks beyond the harbour-stream
To Gulban mountain blue;
It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—
Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing past it;
The sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul
A net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek,
When the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman
Across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill,
His cottage white below;
But gray at every season
Is Abbey Asaroe.
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower,
Tirconnell broad was theirs;
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine,
And holy abbot's prayers;
With chanting always in the house
Which they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—
Where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him!
The ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones
Of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping;
And tremulous and slow
Along the rough and crooked lane
H e crept from Asaroe.