Irish Songs and Poems By William Allingham: Second Edition: With Nine Airs for Voice and Pianoforte, and a Permanent Photograph of the Waterfall of Asaroe |
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ABBEY ASAROE.
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 | Irish Songs and Poems |  |
ABBEY ASAROE.
At the head of a small creek in
the Harbour, in an old and crowded graveyard, stand or
crumble the ruins of this Abbey of the Cistercian Order, founded
in or about the year 1178, by Roderick O' Cananan, Prince of
Tirconnel (Archdall, Monas. Hib.). Only some venerable
fragments of wall remain. The windows are shapeless gaps;
weeds and old ragged bushes grow within; many of the stones
are built into fishermen's huts, or help to fence their scanty
potato patches, while pieces of archivolts, mullions, and other
carved work are more reverently set for headstones in the
neighbouring graveyard. The Abbey took its name from the
Waterfall. More than twenty-five centuries ago (say the oldest
histories) Aedh Ruadh (Red Hugh), High-King of Erin, was
drowned in the river Erne—swept away, it would seem, in
attempting to cross one of the fords. He ‘was buried in the
mound over the margin of the cataract’ [Donegal Annals,
Anno Mundi 4518]. Hence Eas-Aedha-Ruaidh, ‘Waterfall of
Red Hugh,’—written in English in various ways, of which
‘Asaroe’ appears the most suitable. May I be pardoned for
saying here that this little piece had the good fortune to win
the special praise of dear and good George Petrie? He thought
the incident of the Old Man very characteristic of Ireland,
adding, in his letter, ‘It is one that has occurred to me in my
solitary ramblings among our ancient abbeys more than once.’
At the head of a small creek in the Harbour, in an old and crowded graveyard, stand or crumble the ruins of this Abbey of the Cistercian Order, founded in or about the year 1178, by Roderick O' Cananan, Prince of Tirconnel (Archdall, Monas. Hib.). Only some venerable fragments of wall remain. The windows are shapeless gaps; weeds and old ragged bushes grow within; many of the stones are built into fishermen's huts, or help to fence their scanty potato patches, while pieces of archivolts, mullions, and other carved work are more reverently set for headstones in the neighbouring graveyard. The Abbey took its name from the Waterfall. More than twenty-five centuries ago (say the oldest histories) Aedh Ruadh (Red Hugh), High-King of Erin, was drowned in the river Erne—swept away, it would seem, in attempting to cross one of the fords. He ‘was buried in the mound over the margin of the cataract’ [Donegal Annals, Anno Mundi 4518]. Hence Eas-Aedha-Ruaidh, ‘Waterfall of Red Hugh,’—written in English in various ways, of which ‘Asaroe’ appears the most suitable. May I be pardoned for saying here that this little piece had the good fortune to win the special praise of dear and good George Petrie? He thought the incident of the Old Man very characteristic of Ireland, adding, in his letter, ‘It is one that has occurred to me in my solitary ramblings among our ancient abbeys more than once.’
I
Gray, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Belashanny town,It has neither door nor window, the walls are broken down;
The carven-stones lie scatter'd in briar and nettle-bed;
The only feet are those that come at burial of the dead.
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the tide,
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, not in pride;
The boortree and the lightsome ash across the portal grow,
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey Asaroe.
II
It looks beyond the harbour-stream to Gulban mountain blue;It hears the voice of Erna's fall,—Atlantic breakers too;
High ships go sailing pastit; the sturdy clank of oars
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon the shores;
And this way to his home-creek, when the summer day is done,
Slow sculls the weary fisherman across the setting sun;
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, his cottage white below;
But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe.
III
There stood one day a poor old man above its broken bridge;He heard no running rivulet, he saw no mountain-ridge;
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and view'd with misty sight
The Abbey walls, the burial-ground with crosses ghostly white;
Under a weary weight of years he bow'd upon his staff,
Perusing in the present time the former's epitaph;
For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure full of woe,
This man was of the blood of them who founded Asaroe.
IV
From Derry to Bundrowas Tower, Tirconnell broad was theirs;Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and holy abbot's prayers;
With chanting always in the house which they had builded high
To God and to Saint Bernard,—where at last they came to die.
At worst, no workhouse grave for him! the ruins of his race
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this their saintly place.
The fond old man was weeping; and tremulous and slow
Along the rough and crooked lane he crept from Asaroe.
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