A Millstreet Miscellany (3) - Aubane Historical Society

Ned Buckley
Sadness spreads o'er Duhallow's open vale
And mournful winds raise to a gale
Each face you pass is sad to see
For they mourn the Bard of Knocknagree
Gone is the hand that wielded the pen
By humour and wit for his fellow men
No more those verses of humour we'll see
They're gone forever with the Bard of
Knocknagree
Ah Ned, we miss you all the more
For none can write as you wrote of yore
Though others may try none will be
Loved like you, the Bard of Knocknagree
That fountain of wit was taken away
To await the call on Gabriel's day
And there that great assembly shall see
Ned Buckley, the bard of Knocknagree
(1954)
Sean Moylan
Moylan's dead, Sean Moylan's dead
Swift through our land the sad news spread
God rest your soul I softly said, Sean Moylan
What though we quarrelled in times past
And vote for you I never cast
It grieves me sore to see the last of Moylan
For forty years you name has rung
Through all North Cork your fame was sung
By poet and patriot, old and young, Sean Moylan
In dark thrilling days your hand
Struck hard and true for motherland
And Ireland's foes oft felt the hand of Moylan
From Allo's vales to Scartaglen
Was heard the tramp of marching men
The foeman rued Thade Daly's glen and Moylan
Loud o'er your head rings out once more
The rifle's peal as in days of yore
But calm you lie, life's battles o'er, Sean Moylan
Your voice is still, your soul has fled
To swell the ranks of Ireland's dead
God grant you rest, may Heaven be your bed,
Sean Moylan
(1957)
My Home Town
There's a pretty spot, Kilmeedy
Not far from Millstreet Town
And 'tis there I love to linger
When the sun is sinking down;
Oh! 'Tis there I love to linger
In the twilight's purple glow
And listen to the rippling
Of the water down below.
Sheltered in by towering mountains
Undisturbed by rain or gale
Curraghcahill smiles serenely
Over lovely Ardrivale.
There the apple trees are blooming
And flowers bedeck the scene;
Where fields of golden corn
Are entwined with emerald green.
In the glens of Gneeves and Curragh
There is beauty rare and grand;
There's a waterfall unrivalled
Fashioned there by nature's hand;
O'er the mountain streams are flowing
Gathering volumes as they go
Tumbling down o'er mighty boulders
Crashing on the rocks below.
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Lone and lovely is Mount Leader
'Tis for all our eyes, a treat
With the mountains high above it
And the river at its feet;
See the glorious panorama
That embraces Coomlegane
And the woodlands, lawns and meadows
Round the Convent at Drishane
In the midst of all this beauty
Millstreet holds a place apart;
In my dreams and hours of waking
It is always in my heart;
When the Angelus Bell is ringing
And the stars at night look down
Oh! In sprit I am with you
Dear-old-grand-old-Millstreet-Town.
John Twomey