RIVER POEMS

THE ABBEY RIVER AND HER FISHERMEN

The silver Abbey river

Round St. Mary's does a tour;

How oft she gave her bounty

To the labours of the poor!

She leaves her mother Shannon

By turning left "above",

And steady flows by Sandy

Down past the Sally Grove.

She flows on by Athlunkard,

'Fort of the little ships',

And mirrors Bishop O'Dwyer Bridge

As underneath she slips.

Here I sometimes think, she pauses,

Maybe, it's my own whim -

I think she checks in homage -

To the Abbey Fishermen.

For here they lived in humble homes

The Old Sandmall beside,

And made their brocauns agile

To ride both fall and tide.

The Hayes's and the Clancy's,

And the McNamara's too,

And many others out of Park,

I mention but a few.

Here they shaped the pole and paddle,

And made snap-nets 'their way',

To snare the silver salmon,

In waters where they lay.

With silent skill their paddles dipped

In pools beside the Fuzee

As they trolled by swaying sallies

To the flats at Corbally.

With hopeful hearts they pulled their oar

In fair weather and foul.

And passed quickly by Lax Weir,

To the heights o'er Kilquane fall.

To Gabbett's Grove and the Pike Bridge

Their prows into the wind,

And on then to the Shannon Fields,

With the Devil's Path behind.

By Lanahrone to Plassey,

At late the early hour,

To fish the 'draws' at Lugshinnell,

Craglarack and Tannyvour.

Ah, Annaghbeg, that lovely place

And pleasant to this hour,

How sagely you accorded,

Your loveings to the poor.

Sylvan singing water place,

None fairer can we get,

Your silvery stocks depleted,

Dear stream you glisten yet.

Now a long and bitter struggle,

Changing times and harsher laws,

Caused these strong men to relinquish

The above-mentioned draws.

Let me salute in passing,

And reflect upon their fate -

The rush of 'progress' crushes,

So many, soon or late.

But returning to our river,

Which we left at the Sandmall,

She turns right and quickly shoots

Down past the Old Canal.

And here she does not linger

For she hears a low, sweet call,

Her mother's calling softly,

From a nearby surging fall.

So on towards Mathew Bridge she runs,

Thus to complete her tour,

And rejoin her parent water,

At storied Curraghgower.

SHANNON'S WAY

The Shannon runs fast from the falls of Doonass,

By banks that are sylvan and grassy.

And thence on from there flows She crystalline clear,

To meet the sweet Mulcair at Plassey.

Hilly waters spill out, at the Blackwaters mouth,

As she goes on by lea and by lawn,

To Groody's small tide edges in at her side,

And, together, they go flowing on.

Down past Lanahrone and the fall at Kilquane,

She courses as proud as the Nile,

Then forks for apace above the Mill Race,

And laps by St. Thomas's Isle.

She flows past the Lax Weir at Corbally fair,

All the while she is humming a ditty,

and at Curraghgower she is surging with power,

As she flows through the heart of the city.

LAMENT OF THE ABBEY RIVER

 The fishnets are gone from the old Mall wall

No more do they hang there to dry;

Where are the men of the water?

Sad, searching winds seem to sigh,

"Gone evermore from the Abbey",

Swaying green sallies reply.

The brocuans are gone from the Abbey,

No more her clear stream they enjoy;

Where are the men of the small boats?

Freshing spring winds seem to sigh,

"Gone evermore from the river",

Swaying, green sallies reply.

 Salmon grow scarce on the Shannon,

Corbally fall wonders why; 

"Who depleted the peal and the salmon" 

Soft river winds seem to sigh, 

"Ah, it was not the men of the Abbey,

Swaying, green sallies reply.

The barges are gone from the Abbey,

No more the canal they go by;

"Where are the men of the big boats?"

Warm summer winds seem to sigh,

"Gone evermore from the river;

Swaying, green sallies reply.

And the sandmen are gone from the Abbey,

No more by her fair banks they ply,

Where are the men of the sand cots?

Cool autumn winds seem to sigh,

Gone evermore from the river,

Swaying, green sallies reply.

The brocaun, the barge and the sandcot,

No more by her fair waters go by;

Oh where are the men of the water?

Drear winter winds seem to sigh,

Gone, gone, evermore from the river,

Grey, leafless sallies reply.

Envoi

Yet, flows the silver river,

And St. Mary's keep secure,

While her loss is keened by water-song,

At surging Curraghgower.

THE ABBEY ELEGY 

No more their small boats move up that clear stream

At the rising or the ebb of tide.

Their agile black brocauns no more are seen,

For they are gone now from the Abbeyside.

We do not see them paddle past the tall reeds

To join the mother Shannon up above,

Or troll their snap nets where clear waters swirl

For silvery salmon by the Sallygrove.

They do not pass Lax Weir in early springtime,

To fish the draws at lovely Corribalawn,

Or go by the old Mill at night’s diffusion

Nor see the river mists rise at dawn.

They knew the moods of the winding waterways

And dark pools where the salmon stopped to rest

Their paddles dipped with practised skill and ease

From home-made craft the Parish Priest has blessed.

Oft’ times they met the barges on the tide

Waving the water on their journey down

And swapped a friendly word with those good men

Who ferried porter to a thirsty town.

And coming tired homeward in the evening

Their boats to moor beside their own Sandmall

Where swayed unladen sand-cots on the river,

And kin awaited by the limestone wall.

But no more their small boats shadow Abbey’s stream

As crying sea-gulls circled overhead,

Their agile black brocauns no more are seen,

For years have passed, and most of them are dead.

THE ROCKERY STONES

“The rockery stones in your garden, sir,

With its beautiful shaped stones,

Could you tell me where you get them

I’d like one of my own”.

They’re all from Shannon’s silver stream

So rich in ancient lore:

Allaun, Corneen and Lugshinnell,

Lanahrone and Tannyvour.

That turned one in the centre

Might be a sculpture’s dream.

Came from a run at Corribalawn

Before the Shannon Scheme.

And the one there to the left of it

Where the clump of bluebells grow,

Were raised at Lurriga rapids,

A bit below Bannowe.

The little ones by the border

Which peep above the grass

Were pulled from gravelled eddies,

Near the falls above Doonass.

All Stones carved in the Shannon,

By gorge and fall and rill,

With names of purest poetry

Where teeming waters spill.