You will note that the savour is the same as that of the lines I have already quoted describing Abbey a.s.saroe, and of course the same hand wrote them. I wish I could quote the whole poem to Ballyshannon, for it is worth quoting, but one more stanza must suffice, the last one:

If ever I'm a moneyed man, I mean, please G.o.d, to cast My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pa.s.sed; Though heads that now are black or brown must meanwhile gather grey, New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away-- Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside; It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.

And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return To my native Ballyshanny, and the winding banks of Erne.

His birthplace is not far away--one of a row of plain old stone houses standing in the Mall, with a tablet:

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM Poet Born in This House 19th March, 1824

I walked on past it, down to the river below the falls, where, close to the water's edge, a seat has been placed under a rustic canopy, and I sat there for a long time and watched the foaming water rushing over the cliff, with a crash and roar which, as Allingham says, is the voice of the town, "solemn, persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter. Whenever I think of that town, I seem to hear the voice. The river which makes it, runs over rocky ledges into the tide.

Before, spreads a great ocean in sunshine or storm; behind stretches a many-islanded lake. On the south runs a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green, rocky hills, rise peaks of a more distant range."

[Ill.u.s.tration: BIRTHPLACE OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM]

[Ill.u.s.tration: CASTLE DONEGAL]

It is up from the ocean the salmon come in the spring, seeking a place to sp.a.w.n, and before they can get into the "many-islanded lake," they have to pa.s.s the falls. It is a ten-foot leap, even at flood-tide; but they take it, and a beautiful sight it must be to see them do it. But I saw none that day. Just below the falls is a little island, Inis-Saimer, said to be the spot where the Firbolgs, the earliest inhabitants of Ireland, first touched foot to Irish soil. It is given over now to some small buildings connected with the fishery, which is very valuable.

There were a number of boats out, that day, with fishermen in them patiently whipping the water, but I did not see any fish caught.

Ballyshannon is not, I judge, so prosperous as it once was, for across the river from where I sat were a number of tall mills and warehouses, empty and evidently dropping to decay. But it is more bustling than many other towns in Ireland, and has perhaps not sunk quite so deeply into the Slough of Despond. And then again, as the towering ma.s.s of the Belfast Bank in the main street warned me as I walked back through the village, we were getting nearer to the hustling north!

The little train we were to take for Donegal backed up to the platform soon after I reached the station. It is a narrow-gauge road, and the coaches are miniature affairs, scarcely high enough to stand up in, as we found when we entered. And just then the heavens opened, and the rain poured down in sheets. We closed door and windows, and congratulated ourselves that we were snug and dry--and then the other pa.s.sengers began to arrive, soaked through and dripping wet; and as the train consisted of only two coaches, our compartment was soon invaded by two women and two girls, whose gowns were fairly plastered to them. They dried themselves as well as they could, but little streams of water continued to trickle off of them for half an hour.

The road runs through a bare, bleak valley for the first part of the way, clinging perilously to the hillside, and then climbs steeply over the watershed into the valley of the Ballintra, which is green and smiling and apparently prosperous; and at last winds down along the sh.o.r.e of Donegal Bay, through a district of orchards and lush meadows and beautiful hedges and comfortable houses, and so into the picturesque town--Dunna-Gall, the Fort of the Strangers--the ancient seat of the O'Donnells; but to me Donegal, town and county, has one connotation which overshadows all others, and that is with Father O'Flynn. Just where he lived I don't know, but the tribute which Alfred Perceval Graves paid him is the most eloquent ever paid in rhyme to any priest--and, as a comment upon the efforts of selfish politicians to fan the flame of religious bigotry in Ireland, it is worth remembering that it was written by a Protestant! Do you know the poem? Well, if you do, you will be glad to read it again, and if you do not, you will have every reason to thank me for introducing you to it; so, just to give myself the pleasure of writing it, I am going to quote it entire, for it would be a crime to leave out a line of it.

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charmin' variety, Far renowned for larnin' and piety; Still, I'd advance ye widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, _Slainte_ and _slainte_ and _slainte_ agin; Powerfulest preacher, and Tinderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous forever at Greek and Latinity, Faix! and the divels and all at Divinity-- Father O'Flynn'd make hares of them all!

Come, I vinture to give ye my word, Niver the likes of his logic was heard, Down from mythology Into thayology, Troth! and conchology if he'd the call.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick!

Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest control, Checking the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.

And, though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still, at all seasons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you?

Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity?

Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?"

There is a quaint old inn in Donegal, with dining and sitting rooms crowded with "curiosities" gathered from the four quarters of the globe by the proprietor, who was once a soldier; and his daughter looks after the comfort of the guests; and we had there that night a most satisfying dinner. And then, as it was still quite light, I filled my pipe and started out to stroll about the town; but I hadn't gone far when I heard a bell being rung with great violence, and when I looked again, I saw the small boy who was ringing it; and when he pa.s.sed me, I asked him what the matter was, and he handed me a poster, printed most gorgeously in red and black, and these were the first lines of it:

TOWN HALL, DONEGAL

Monday Evg., June 23rd, 1913

MONSTER ATTRACTION

Powerful Performance!

For the Benefit of Mr. Joe Cullen, The Donegal Old Favourite On which occasion the ladies and gentlemen of the Donegal Amateur Dramatic and Variety Club will Appear.

Then followed the programme. There were to be four scenes from "The Ever Popular Play Ent.i.tled Robert Emmet," also "The Laughable Sketch Ent.i.tled The Cottage by the Sea," also "The Irish Farce, Miss Muldowedy from Ireland," the whole to be interspersed with variety turns by members of the club, as well as Mr. Cullen. "Don't Miss This Treat," the poster concluded. "Motto, 'Fun without Vulgarity.'"

Blessing the chance which had brought us to Donegal upon this day, I hastened back to the hotel, showed the poster to Betty, and three minutes later, we were sallying forth in quest of the town-hall, whose entrance proved to be up a little court just across the street. The prices of admission, so the bill announced, were "2s., 1s. and 6d.," and I consulted with the abashed young man at the door as to which seats we should take. He advised the shilling ones, and we thereupon paid and entered. I wondered afterwards where the two shilling seats were, for the shilling ones were the best in the house.

Although it was nearly time for the performance to begin, we were almost the first arrivals; but we soon heard heavy feet mounting the stair, and quite a crowd of men and boys began to file into the sixpenny seats at the rear. A few girls and women came forward into the shilling seats; but from the look of them, I suspected that they were deadheads, and I fear that Mr. Cullen did not reap a great fortune from that benefit!

There was a tiny stage at one end of the hall, and the stage-manager, after the habit of all such, was having his troubles, for he could not get the footlights--a strip of gas-pipe with holes in it--to work. We thought for a while that he was going to blow himself up, and the whole house along with him; but he gave up the struggle, at last; the pianist played an overture, and the curtain rose.

I have never seen the whole of "Robert Emmet," but from what I saw of it that night, I judge that it must have been written for a star, for n.o.body does much talking except Emmet himself. He, however, does a lot; and it was fortunate that, in this instance, he was impersonated by Mr.

Cullen, for I am sure none of the other actors could have learned the part. Mr. Cullen proved to be a hatchet-faced old gentleman without any teeth; but he had a pleasing voice, and Emmet's grandiloquent speech from the dock was greeted with applause.

Of the two farces I will say nothing, except that they were really not so bad as one would expect, once the actors had recovered from their embarra.s.sment when they perceived two strangers present; but the feature of the evening was the songs, which were many and various and well-rendered. I remember only one of them, which we then heard for the first time, but which we were to hear many times thereafter, a lilting, catchy air, in which the audience a.s.sisted with the chorus, which ran something like this:

It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go; It's a long way to Tipperary, The sweetest land I know.

Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell, Leicester Square; It's a long, long way to Tipperary, But my heart is there.

It is the old, old theme of the Irish exile longing for home; the theme of I know not how many poems, from the time of St. Columba, banished overseas and "thinking long" of

Derry mine, my own oak grove, Little cell, my home, my love;

down through Father Dollard's lilting "Song of the Little Villages":

The pleasant little villages that grace the Irish glynns Down among the wheat-fields--up amid the whins; The little white-walled villages, crowding close together, Clinging to the Old Sod in spite of wind and weather: Ballytarsney, Ballymore, Ballyboden, Boyle, Ballingarry, Ballymagorry by the Banks of Foyle, Ballylaneen, Ballyporeen, Bansha, Ballysadare, Ballybrack, Ballinalack, Barna, Ballyclare,

to the tender verses by Stephen Gwynne with which I will close this already, perhaps, too-poetical chapter:

Ireland, oh, Ireland! centre of my longings, Country of my fathers, home of my heart, Overseas you call me, "Why an exile from me?

Wherefore sea-severed, long leagues apart?"

As the shining salmon, homeless in the sea-depths, Hears the river call him, scents out the land, Leaps and rejoices in the meeting of the waters, b.r.e.a.s.t.s weir and torrent, nests him in the sand;

Lives there and loves; yet with the year's returning, Rusting in his river, pines for the sea; Sweeps down again to the ripple of the tideway, Roamer of the ocean, vagabond and free.

Wanderer am I, like the salmon of thy rivers; London is my ocean, murmurous and deep, Tossing and vast; yet through the roar of London Reaches me thy summons, calls me in sleep.

Pearly are the skies in the country of my fathers, Purple are thy mountains, home of my heart: Mother of my yearning, love of all my longings, Keep me in remembrance, long leagues apart.

CHAPTER XXV

THE MAIDEN CITY

a.s.s far back as its history goes, Donegal was the seat of the O'Donnells, that powerful clan of which the choicest flowers were Hugh Roe and Red Hugh, and here they had their castle, on a small bluff overlooking the waters of the River Eask. It still stands there, remarkably well-preserved considering its vicissitudes, one of the handsomest semi-fortified buildings in existence anywhere. It is by far the most interesting thing to be seen in the town of Donegal, and we set out for it immediately after breakfast next morning.

Donegal we found by daylight to be a pleasant little town, with a single street of two-storied houses curving down over the hill toward the river, and a few narrow lanes branching off from it, after the traditional fashion of the Irish village. The castle is nestled in a bend of the river, which defends it on two sides, and there is still a trace of the moat which used to defend the other two. The best view of it is from the bridge crossing the river, and surprisingly beautiful it is, with its gabled towers and square bartizan turrets and mullioned windows. The picture opposite this page shows how the castle looks from the land side, with one of the square turrets, perfectly preserved; but the mullioned windows are the most striking feature of this side of the building, which was the domestic side, and so had larger openings than the one overlooking the river, which was more open to attack.