Denis J Foley Poems


I think not of the beauties rare,
That other lands may claim;
I think not of the golden store,
Far o'er the raging main.
I but revere my Erin dear,
And the charming vales by the Allow,
Where I have spent sweet childhood's days,
In my own lov'd Duhallow.

O'er this barony wide are scenes so rare,
Unsurpass'd in the Emerald Isle;
Sweet verdant vales and gaunt mountains Steep,
On which Nature beams ever the while.
The picturesque bosom of fair fertile lea,
Stretches onward from Meelin to Mallow,
Well watered by rivulets sparkling and gay ;
What charms are thine sweet Duhallow.

And rich wooded vales where the warblers 'bide,
Re-echoing the glens with tune;
With dense foilage dress'd, they meet the admiring eye,
'Neath their shades wild flowers gaily bloom.
In summer, when Nature's best charms portray'd,
By the slopes ofthe Alloa and the Dallua;
Its then I am mindful of thy true loveliness
My heart's pride, historic, Duhallow

Bloom on fertile vales, may your beauty ne'er fade,
'Till Liberty's light thee adorn;
When thou'll dazzle anew like a rich diadem,
In the radiance of freedom's bright morn.
For ever I'll love thee 'mid life's changing scenes,
And when death's course I shall follow;
I would wish to be laid 'neath the elm tree's shade,
With my Kindred in storied Duhallow.

There to take my last sleep in the land of my birth,
Its hallowed earth over my breast,
The green sod of Erin my coverlet sweet-
My soul in the Heaven of Rest!
Yet my last earthly thought ere this world I flee,
And be free from its cares and its sorrow;
Is to breathe one last prayer, for my dear country,
And my own lov'd native Duhallow....

Denis J. Foley,
27----3----1921 ( Easter Sunday )

Sunset on Duhallow's Hill

Duhallow's Hills! Duhallows Hills!
With pride sincere my bosom thrills,
Tho' scenes more fair o'er-spread the Isle,
None can woo my heart from thee the while-
Killarney's Lakes--unrivall'd sweet-
Avoca Vales where "bright waters meet"
Glendalough-fam'd in story old,
Sweet Dublin Bay 'neath Howth Head bold!
Ah fairer Scene my soul to thrill,
Is sunset's glow on Duhallow's Hills.

When noble Sol sinks in the west,
And sheds his last long rays across its breast,
Casting o'er each knoll a russet shade,
Gilding with gold each sylvan glade;
Painting the mountains, gaunt and blue,
A mystic, changing, shadowy hue,
Its silvery rivers dancing, sparkling, free
As they swiftly glide by green fertile lee,
A glimpse of Heaven, aye, with extasy to fill
Is sunset on Duhallow's Hills,

In foreign climes what views sublime-
By the wooded slopes of the deep swelling Rhine
Or the spreading vineyards of sunny France-
Italy's olive groves where the sunbeams dance,
And oh! that scene surpassing, great,
As Sol sheds his rays thro' the "Golden Gate"
Those glories afar I ne'er wish to see,
Nor will they estrange my heart, Eire: from thee,
For lured, enraptured as by magic skill,
I await the sunset on Duhallow's Hills.

Sweet Duhallow's Hills! Lov'd Duhallow's Hills!
Round thy rugged slopes flow the limped rills;
'Neath thy lofty brows nestle pleasant vales,
Well sheltered from the wintry gales.
Where thy patriot sons and fair daughters dwell,
Of their love for thee no pen may tell,
On their heart of hearts they but long to see,
Their native Erin proud, grand and free,
Aye! the wild desire their bosoms thrill,
For Freedom's-glow on Duhallow's Hills.........

Denis J. Foley,
March---15th.--1921... ....

A Song of Shrove

Awake, arise, ye bashful beaus,
Your courage muster, straight'way propose
To some blushing maid who has charmed your hearts
And pierced them through with Cupid's dart.
Upon this gladsome, gay Shrove-tide,
Gain each of you a winsome bride;
Aye! seek not comfort in single life,
But resolve to take to yourself a wife.
And taste the sweets of married joys,
(Mans only solace outside Paradise)
For bachelorhood is both dull and drear,
No one to comfort, none to cheer,
None to scold you, none to pet,
None to calm you when you fume and fret,
Then don't delay, time doth swiftly pass,
Lay siege to some fair one's heart, have the question asked
Join in the union sweet of wedlock bonds
To "honour and obey"- an ere grow fond,
Then life will flow like a placid stream-
One long unending, pleasant dream.
Then in Gods good time will you gladly see,
Little happy children round the parent knee;
Each to be your comfort, pride and joy,
(Sweet golden-haired girl and bonny boy)
On through life your steps to cheer
As their youthful laughter rings of times near
Then you may feel your happiness complete,
A foretaste of Heaven's Bliss so sweet,
Now, all ye maidens, fair, demure, and coy,
Lend a pleasant ear to the swains so shy;
Who sorely strickon by Cupid's wand.
In faltering accents seek your hearts and hand,
Make life for each a bright haven of love,
Whom ye join in wpdlock this merry Shrove. .. ....

Denis J Foley,

The Bog of Meentina by Denis J Foley


Ah! limitless waste what treasure you own,
Where the wild heather blossom its purple has thrown,
And the cannabhan white with the breezes are flowin',
The pleasant brown bog of Meentina.

Where the "creaghill's" silent emblems of an olden age,
Are raised by willing hands in many a marge,
Where rippling streamlets rush thro' many a gorge,
In the wild lonely bog of Meentina"

There the peat banks stand high like sentinels entranced,
Guarded like treasure trove in the vast expanse,
To be hewn by the hard, bony, horny hands,
In the wide stretching bog of Meentina.

When the turf-cutters 'semble to toil all day long,
The labour to liglrten with laughter and song,
Ah! in Erin you'd not find such a gay-hearted throng,
As in the brown bog of Meentina.

Yea! oft have I watched them'neath Sol's scorching ray,
As they bear the brunt of the wearisome day,
Yet not a frown their features portray,
Those carefree folk of Meentina.

May God bless those honest, true sons of toil,
Who love with hearts burning , their native isle.
May fortune upon them beam ever the while ,
As they work in the bogs of Meentina.

As I ponder in silence while I dreamily view,
The wide-spreading moor-land, and distant hills blue,
The sad fate of my country, I woefully rue,
As I stand in the bog of Meentina.

Yet withal I trust with a fervent hope briglrt,
That soon gloriously beaming blest Freedom's sweet light,
Shall illume the dawn when pasts Eire's dark night,
And gaily shine o'er the vales 'round Meentina... ..

Denis J, Foley,

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