Oh, see on yonder smiling hill,
Ribbed in natures brightest sheen,
A clump of beech and elm tall,
Bedeck'd with leaves of green.
Neath their broad and lofty spreading boughs,
In their cold graves below,
Lie the dead who take their long last sleep,
In silent Kilmabo.

'Mong kindred dust they are at rest,
Free from all earthly care,
Though mayhap of this world's sorrows,
They bravely bore their share'
Now all is o'er * at Death's summons dire,
They fled this vale of woe,
In slumber quiet they now repose,
In ancient Kilmabo.

There to await the fateful hour,
When Michael's trumpet sounds,
O'er land and sea-through the universe,
The last great call resounds.
It bids the dead again arise
From their cold graves below,
May they then stand on His right hand,
Who sleeps in Kilmabo.

Oh Kilmabo, lone Kilmabo,
Home of the silent dead;
What sense of awe enwraps mY soul,
And fills my heart with dread,
Of mortals farg when death's embrace,
Lays weary mankind low,
When dust to dust they must return,
As in ancient Kilmabo'

Fond kindred dear are sleeping here,
Amid its crumbling clay,
A Parent fond and kind and true,
Is there mouldering in decay.
When he was laid in his cold tomb,
My anguish great did grow,
And my memory dwells unceasinglY,
Round his grave in Kilmabo.

'Bove his silent tomb in summer's bloom,
The stately ash doth wave;
And the gentle zephyrs softly croon,
Sweet requiems o'er his grave.
In winter's gloom when blows the blast,
And thickly falls the snow,
They sweetly shade that hallowed spot,
In silent Kilmabo.

Sleep well, dear one, your earthly strife,
And sorrows are now o'er,
Your kindly spirit now enjoys sweet peace,
Upon the Eternal shore.
When Nature's debt I too, must pay,
And quit this vale of woe;
I would wish to slumber too, with thee
In ancient Kilmabo.

Denis J Foley,
oct---2nd--- 1 9 I 6-----