Songs & Poems of Carndonagh – Carndonagh Heritage

Glasha

Are you from Glasha?
I said, from Glasha?
Where the fields of corn roll down by the sea.
I’m glad to see you.
Tell me, how are you?
And the friends I’m longing to see.

Are you from Tiernaleague, Altishane, or Glenmakee?
Anywhere around the place
Will do for me.
Are you from Glasha?
Hoorah, for Glasha!
For I’m from Glasha too!

(Air: “Are you from Dixie”)

The Alcohol Factory

Victor Gillespie and Pat Lynch

to the air of ‘The Mountains of Mourne’

“This year in Carndonagh, we’ve got something new
And I’ll do my best to explain it to you;
At the foot of the town there’s a building so grand
And what it’s all for sure we don’t understand.
With Dutchmen and Germans and Czechos achone
And men from Dundalk and the town of Athlone
While the boys from the town here they work by the score
And our friend Neily Doney from Magheramore.

Now I’m told in the morning if you go down late,
The Dutchman will turn round and show you the gate;
He’ll hand you your papers for not being in time saying
“We start at eight, not a quarter to nine.”
When the first sod was cut and the foundation laid,
There were thousands turned out, every man with a spade.
With spades and with shovels and tools of the best
Sure we went, God forgive us, we went with the rest.

For the first eighteen weeks sure we worked night and day,
Our backs they were sore, and so small was the pay;
Then our foreman decided on strike we should go
As he thought we were sure worth a little more dough.
We hunted a clatter of men from Dunaff
And some other fellows that’s down from Culdaff.
Ah! We sure won the strike, yes we won by a yard,
But some chaps were sacked then for working too hard.

So we both started off with shovel and spade
Until we were fired for swinging the lead;
Then we went down with aprons and trousers so white
And we started as painters to make the place bright.
We learned all the trades and how copper to stick,
And plastering and plumbing and laying the brick.
We were skilled at all works for no job did we fear,
We even were trusted with carrying the beer.

We are glad that we’ve helped the new factory to build
And glad that we’re here and didn’t get killed.
Our money we saved not, no fortune we’ve made,
So back we must go to the shovel and spade.
And now we await the big opening day
When they turn out the stuff, aye, that’s stronger than tay,
And one job we could still hold, for at it we’re skilled,
Is testing that spirit whenever it’s stilled.

Now all you good farmers around Inishowen
Be proud of your muscle, your brawn and your bone;
Just tighten your belt, give your braces a pull,
Get hold of the plough and go down with a will.
Put down arran banners with farmyard manure.
Man, they are the stuff keeps the wolf from the dure;
And if they reject them don’t bother your head
Put them into a pot and make poundies instead.”

Lough Swilly Railway

‘Tis well I remember the day of renown
When the Swilly came steaming into our wee town
With a load of pork parings and Brewster’s sweet bread,
“Twould put hair on your chest, never mind on your head.
And early next morning, she steamed off like mad
With a cargo of poteen that came from Glengad:
And our friend, Archie Porter did sample the store,
So he fell off at Collin and was heard of no more.

When she came back that night it was hours after dark.
All the dogs down in Priestown – they started to bark.
Though she often came late, sure that was no harm;
Sure she never forgot for to come back to Carn.
When coming at Collin, the whistle was blown
And crowds gathered out for to welcome her home.
Nicely sailing along she was not due till nine
But they got into trouble with a cow on the line.

For to work on the Swilly was my great desire
So I filled up a form and Pat Cole pulled the wire.
“Twas then that I started a stoker to trade:
My wages were small, but I always got paid.
I worked hard all week and my job it was hot
And my wages, those days, didn’t come to a lot.
But I thought myself the big noise of the town
When I went down on Saturday for my half-crown.

For thirty five years sure we steamed out and in
Through hail, rain and snow we went thick and thin.
When the coal it was scarce, ah! Sure we didn’t mind,
With our shoulders together we pushed from behind.
Breakdowns, we’ve had many and strikes without pay.
If a hen crossed the line ’twas another delay.
When the rails they got shaky and the journey seemed long
We feared not the danger, we still carried on.

Now sad is the story I have to relate,
Sure they called home the engine and shut up the gate;
And now I’m left idle with no fortune made,
Just to see the line wrecked by the crowbar brigade.
They lifted the sleepers and off they did march-
I’ve seen them myself down behind the dry arch;
And while they have timber to brighten the fire,
We have to put up with the jags of barbed wire.\

The Dying Trapper’s Farewell

– H. McGonagle, Carrowreagh

O Father, dear, I have sent for you,
For now my end is near.
In Alaska’s snow-clad plains I’ve lived
This five-and-twenty year.

And in this lonely trapper’s hut,
I have often dreamt of home,
Of that thatched cot in Carn Town
In far off Inishowen.

There’s the dear-loved white-washed chapel,
I know that it’s there still,
So peaceful in the valley
Below the Barrack Hill.

Whist, Father! that’s the Angelus,
My God, I know it well;
For in this snowy wilderness
I’ve often heard that bell.

Last night I dreamt I was at home,
In Carn Town far away;
But the white wastes of Alaska were
Round me at the break of day.

But, Father, now I’m dying
And I must see that old home,
My soul will take a lonely flight
To far off Inishowen.

That’s the call of the wild coyote
Out there upon the plain,
And the hungry wolves are on the prowl;
I hear their growls again.

The huskies are getting restless,
They know that death is near.
Good-bye, Father, I’m on my way
To that village far from here.

Bury me here in Alaska
For I have no one of my own
To take my remains to Carn Town
In far off Inishowen.

Carndonagh

– Fr. J. Lanigan, O.M.I, Iona

Northwards twenty miles from Derry, dear old Derry Columcille
Midway on the road that takes you from Buncrana to Moville,
‘Twixt the mountains and the ocean, ‘midst the glens of Donegal,
Where the white waves o’er Strabrega bound to hear Manannan’s call,
In the heart of Inishowen, loyal land of Cahir O
Nestles Carn: Carndonagh, boyhood’s home of long ago.

Not the rugged glens or mountains, not the hills or pleasant braes
Not the waters wild, Atlantic, not the loughs or bending bays,
Not the rivers where the salmon seeks far up the gravel bed,
Not the distant bends of Binnion where the sun is setting, red,
Draws my heart to Carndonagh where I wandered long ago.
Dear old Carn: Carndonagh in the land of Cahir O.

Home is there, a mother praying for her son so far away;
There is a father, like St. Joseph, faithful toils the lifelong day;
There is a brother, strong and prudent, and a sister fond of me –
These thy bonds, old Carndonagh, these the bonds that bind to thee:
Friends are there, whom time and distance daily made the dearer grow,
God be with you Friends of Carn, in the land of Cahir O.

Still I see the school house standing, down below the Barrack Hill,
Whilst old schoolmates round me gather, till the eyes begin to fill –
For amongst them one is missing, whom I hoped to meet again,
Once to double all his triumphs, or perhaps, divide his pain.
Little thought I when we parted, and he wept that I should go
That no more we’d meet in Carn, in the land of Cahir O.

And the Chapel chased and cherished, brings to mind one happy day
When I made my First Communion, still half dreading to betray
Him who called us to His Banquet, there to make us wise and good –
Till today, dear Lord, I thank Thee for that first taste of Thy Food;
Till today around that altar I can hear the murmur low
That from pious lips is breaking in the land of Cahir O.

But another sound comingles with the humble voices there,
For I hear the dear departed calling me to breathe a prayer;
Fresh as grows the grass above them, deep as in the sculptured stone.
In my heart their names are graven, fond, familiar as my own,
And I wander through the churchyard, seek each resting place I know
Where they wait the angel’s trumpet, in the land of Cahir O.

Once again I’m leaving Carn, and the last place that I see
Is the Convent, Mount St. Mary’s, just above the fairy-tree;
And the lamp is ever burning which through yonder window shines –
‘Tis the light before the altar, round which every head inclines,
As I saw them oft in boyhood – modest, veiled and bending low,
Bringing blessings down on Carn, in the land of Cahir O.

Written at St. Joseph’s College, Columbo, Ceylon: June 1906

An Exile’s Dream

– E. C. Doherty, Carrick

One night of late, while in my sleep, I had a pleasant dream;
That I was in old Ireland convenient to my home,
I thought I lay on Carrick Brae and had a gaze all round
At the bonny woods and planting green quite close to Carn Town.

I thought I gazed on Malin Braes, the ground I well do know,
Likewise the Isle I viewed awhile where the wild Atlantic flows;
Strabregga, too, I well did view, where with youngsters blithe and gay,
‘Tis there I spent some happy days close to its lovely bay.

Glasha Glen I thought of then and also Collen Hill;
I thought of dear old Claggan Tower that’s in my memory still
‘Round Labby cove I oft’ did rove and had the best of fun,
For I was always welcomed there by old as well as young.

Gortnamara and Bellure and likewise Glenmakee,
Around these mentioned places pleasant gatherings I did see;
I thought I saw sweet Tiernaleague where lovers always flow,
And I myself amongst the rest sure oftimes there did go.

‘Twas then I took a lonely look at that wee deserted town,
The place where I was born and bred with sorrow did look down;
There I saw peace and pleasure, but all of that is fled,
For some did roam and leave their home and others they are dead.

Oh, I am a jolly smuggler, I keep the best of stuff
And I do not care for Civic Guards in Carrowkeel or Muff,
Carndonagh or Culdaff, Malin or Moville;
I am at their defiance because they don’t know where I still.

My yeast I get in Derry and bring it by their nose;
They think I am afraid of them, with their buttons on their clothes;
But for them I do not give a jot, it’s me they will not get;
I always make my whiskey – let the night be dry or wet.

The neighbours and informers came often to the hill;
It seems to puzzle all of them for they don’t know where I still.
The neighbours cannot tell on me as they oft’ time did before
When they caught my uncle Billy on the road from Lenamore.

When my brothers and my comrades were fighting in the war
I was sitting in the heather with my arms around my jar.
Oh, I love to sit beside my still – it fills my heart with joy
For I cannot do without it since I was a little boy.

Oh, when I am dying and in my dying bed,
I hope you won’t forget to stick a bottle at my head;
And when I am departed be sure, make no mistake
Don’t put me in a coffin, just stick me in a flake!

And when I go to Heaven there’s a certain thing I’ll do,
I’ll get great with Saint Peter and teach him how to brew:
And all you that go below will have a better bunk,
Yous can get a drop of the real old stuff and keep the devil drunk!

(Source: Ena McColgan (granddaughter) Tuberclare, Downhill, Coleraine)

The Jolly Smuggler

Oh, when I am dying and in my dying bed,
I hope you won’t forget to stick a bottle at my head;
And when I am departed be sure, make no mistake
Don’t put me in a coffin, just stick me in a flake!

The Place Where I Was Born

There are breezy knowes, whin spangled,
There are shadow-haunted hollows,
Green and fragrant in the maytime
Round the place where I was born.

Where the poplars nod and whisper
By the pastures, and the swallows
Skim across the lushy meadows
And the wind-stirred fields of corn.

Often, there, I sat and listened
To the fern-hid streamlets brawling
In a cool recess sequestered,
‘Neath an ivy-mantled ben;

While the blackbirds piping charmed me,
And I heard the cuckoo calling
‘Mong the leaf draped hazel bushes
In Cregnahorna Glen.

It was peaceful there and soothing
When the grey of dusk had fallen
O’er the glen and dewy hollows,
Blurring mossy crag and tree,

When the lights began to glimmer
On the distant braes of Malin,
And the summer-moon rose placidly
Above dark Glenmakee.

‘Twas in Maytime that I saw it last;
The lanky poplar-shadows
Sprawled across the sunny pastures
That, since childhood days, I knew.

I heard the corncrakes calling
In the river-bordered meadows,
As the scenes of childhood vanished
Forever from my view.

Ah the haunts of home and childhood
Sure the years cannot efface them,
From my memory though divers roads
Some sunny, some forlorn,

I’ve trod since I forsook them
Yet how clearly I can trace them
The breezy knows and hollows
Round the place where I was born!

A Memory

By Fred Kearney

The moon shines bright over San Francisco Bay
A million stars are twinkling in the sky
Being free from toil and worry of the day
I stand and watch the ships go by.

The city’s lights behind me brightly gleaming,
The twin peaks in the distance I can see
Lone mountain, wrapt in slumber, too, is seeming
As if ‘twould wake and hold a reverie.

Sweet music on the breeze is gently swelling
The rippling waters breaking on the shore
In shady nook there lovers’ tales are telling;
A scene more grand I never saw before.

Yet still tonight I’m thinking not of gladness
For a message came from dear old Carn today
The news it brought has filled my heart with sadness
For it told me of a friend that’s passed away.

Right well I know the spot where friends have laid him
In the shadow of the old school ‘mong the trees
And I know with flowers they decked the grave they made him
That will bend to kiss the sward with every breeze.

I can picture in my mind the loved ones weeping
As they kneel beside the new-made grave to pray
Where the one they loved so well in life lies sleeping
In that sacred mound of consecrated clay.

God comfort those he left behind in sorrow;
And help them bear their cross with fortitude
Till they meet again upon some bright tomorrow,
The one they loved, so gentle kind and good.

– Fred Kearney, 570 Harrison Street, San Francisco

My Lovely Irish Rose

by Fred Kearney

A winding river winds its way close to an Irish home,
And mingles with Strathbregga Bay where flows the Atlantic foam,
‘Twas in a cot close to a spot where the river gently flows
I said farewell to my own dear girl – my lovely Irish Rose.

O Carn fair beyond compare, I never will forget:
O Carn fair, beyond compare, I think I see it yet.
We sailed away from Moville Bay, ’twas at the evening’s close,
I waved my hand to the dear old land and my lovely Irish Rose.

The stranger’s land is fair to see, the stranger, too, is kind,
But sure there’s none I can compare with the girl I left behind.
I’d rather stray by the old Millbrae just at the evening’s close,
On a summer’s night with my heart’s delight – my Lovely Irish Rose.

O Mary dear, I’m lonely here, without you all the while;
I miss your loving words of cheer and I miss your Irish smile.
Before I go to sleep at night, before my eyes I close
I pray that God may guide you right – my lovely Irish Rose.

Good Old Trabrega

I’m getting tired of this roaming.
I am wearying of it more and more each day,
I think I’ll pack my bags and go back
To the folks I’ve left back near Trabrega Bay.

Old Trabrega you keep rolling,
Just the way I’ve always thought of you before,
From the barmouth I hear the waves a flowing
Soon I’ll be sailing to your shore.

Oh! why did I ever leave you
Why did I take the long and dusty road,
To see those far and distant places
But I am shedding off this heavy load.

Old Trabrega you keep rolling…

I’ve sailed on many a lonely ocean
I have marvelled at the sights that I have seen,
But the hills of home I hear them calling
So I’m heading back to my old Ise of Green.

Old Trabrega you keep rolling…

The Ancient Hills of Donagh

by Patrick Doherty, Craignahorna and U.S.A.

Mist-haunted, robed in heather, by sea-tangled breezes fanned,
The ancient hills of Donagh grey, silent sentries stand.
Oh, many a tale of glory and sorrow they might tell!
But the hoary hills of Donagh retain their secrets well.

The Ancient Hills of Donagh their friendly shadows cast
Over many a rath and cromleach – grey relics of the past,
O’er lonely glen and valley, where keep and abbey stood
The wistful hills of Donagh for ever sadly brood.

Historic Hills of Donagh, you’ve seen the Fenians pass
Beneath your misty summits tall Kern and Gallowglass
Have followed in their footsteps with Hugh and Cahir Roe,
Within your friendly shadows to meet the Saxon foe.

Among the Hills of Donagh the haunts of Columcille –
Lone holy well and grotto – are known and reverenced still,
The Mass-rock of the penal times storm ravaged and moss-grown,
In glen remote and hillside to seekers still are shown.

Among the hills of Donagh was famed John Colgan born
Who left his native hills in youth to nevermore return.
Learned Annalist; for Erin he toiled with gifted pen.
In Belgium soil he slumbers far from his native glen.

A covert for the moor-fowl their purple heath affords.
Their sun-drenched slopes are speckled with lowing mountain herds.
O luring Hills of Donagh of the ever-singing streams
Sure many a lonely exile beholds you in his dreams.

Upon their crests were kindled the druids’ sacred fires,
Within their shadows moulder the ashes of my sires.
My native hills of Donagh I’ll cherish till the last
For in their kindly shadows my childhood days were passed.

O Ancient Hills of Donagh in ages centuries flown
Full many a splendid edifice your shadows fell upon –
Vast monastery and castle now ruins in the glen
My prayer is, Hills of Donagh may you see them rise again.

Carndonagh Town

Mrs Brigid McCarron, Pound Street

Farewell unto this lovely town, from it I mean to roam
Called Carndonagh of renown, my youthful, happy home.
‘Twas there I spent some happy hours, the truth to you I’ll tell,
So now I am bound for America to cross the raging main.

It breaks my heart when I must part with Carn’s mirth & fame,
Those lovely woods and valleys I might never see again.
Surrounded by those lovely hills of fame and high renown
There’s no place else I can compare to Carndonagh Town.

If you could see the Barrack Hill all in the month of May
With buttercups and daisies they all deck the rocks so gay
Where the blackbird and the golden thrush do echo all around
Those lovely woods and plantations that lie close to Carn Town.

When sleep it does me conquer and mocks me with its dreams
I think I see Thompson’s Bridge and all its purling streams
When I awake in a foreign shore, and, gazing all around
I’ll think of the happy nights I spent in Carndonagh Town.

Now, to conclude and finish, I mean to say no more,
I’ll steer my barque far o’er the sea where the stormy billows roar.
I bid farewell to Paddy’s land, that consecrated ground,
And to my lovely, blue-eyed Irish girl I left in Carn Town.