Poems
The Winding Banks Of Erne
Adieu to Belashanny!
where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I’ll think of you,
as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town,
where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place
but partly seems my own;
There’s not a house or window,
there’s not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands,
I’ll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you,
tho’ my back I’m forced to turn—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings
we’ll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly,
the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net,
and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,
and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling,
and gathering up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon
rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit,
and many a joke and ‘yarn’;—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall,
the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill’d harbour
is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,
and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer
to Coolnargit sandhills gray;
While far upon the southern line,
to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue
gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down,
the red flag at her stern;—
Adieu to these, adieu to all
the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,
and them that pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net,
from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,
that ocean-mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft,
six hundred in the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,
and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves,
where gull and curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your lee
the breakers you discern!—
Adieu to all the billowy coast,
and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and
your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy
th’ Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air,
and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach,
and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,
the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile,
and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health,
for all things have their turn—
And I must quit my native shore,
and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade
from the Harbour to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest,
and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,
where ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing
on the curving flood below;
The Lough, that winds through islands
under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle Caldwell’s stretching woods,
with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond
among the heath and fern,—
For I must say adieu—adieu
to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves
the live-long summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff,
and banks with wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their work and sing
beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path
among the growing corn;
Along the river-side they go,
where I have often been,
Oh, never shall I see again
the happy days I’ve seen!
A thousand chances are to one
I never may return,—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,
when merry neighbours meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls,
‘Get up and shake your feet!’
To ‘seanachas’ and wise old talk
of Erin’s days gone by—
Who trench’d the rath on such a hill,
and where the bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief;
with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung
to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile
is now for me to learn—
Adieu, my dear companions
on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down
to each end of the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—
I wish no one any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,
the Mall, and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there,
I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind
will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy
at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I’ll bear in mind,
and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I’m a money’d man,
I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
where youthful years were pass’d;
Though heads that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
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 Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I’ll think of you,
as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town,
where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place
but partly seems my own;
There’s not a house or window,
there’s not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands,
I’ll recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you,
tho’ my back I’m forced to turn—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings
we’ll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly,
the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net,
and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off—she feels the oars,
and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling,
and gathering up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon
rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit,
and many a joke and ‘yarn’;—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall,
the mirror of the tide,
When all the green-hill’d harbour
is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns,
and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer
to Coolnargit sandhills gray;
While far upon the southern line,
to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue
gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down,
the red flag at her stern;—
Adieu to these, adieu to all
the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads,
and them that pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net,
from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League,
that ocean-mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft,
six hundred in the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge,
and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves,
where gull and curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your lee
the breakers you discern!—
Adieu to all the billowy coast,
and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore,—Bundoran! and
your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy
th’ Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air,
and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach,
and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide,
the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile,
and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health,
for all things have their turn—
And I must quit my native shore,
and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade
from the Harbour to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest,
and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks,
where ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing
on the curving flood below;
The Lough, that winds through islands
under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle Caldwell’s stretching woods,
with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond
among the heath and fern,—
For I must say adieu—adieu
to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves
the live-long summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff,
and banks with wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their work and sing
beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path
among the growing corn;
Along the river-side they go,
where I have often been,
Oh, never shall I see again
the happy days I’ve seen!
A thousand chances are to one
I never may return,—
Adieu to Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances,
when merry neighbours meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls,
‘Get up and shake your feet!’
To ‘seanachas’ and wise old talk
of Erin’s days gone by—
Who trench’d the rath on such a hill,
and where the bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief;
with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung
to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile
is now for me to learn—
Adieu, my dear companions
on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down
to each end of the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather,—
I wish no one any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane,
the Mall, and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there,
I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind
will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy
at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I’ll bear in mind,
and often fondly turn
To think of Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I’m a money’d man,
I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place
where youthful years were pass’d;
Though heads that now are black and brown
must meanwhile gather gray,
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 Belashanny,
and the winding banks of Erne.
Analysis (ai): The poem centers on departure from a rural Irish locality, emphasizing intimate ties to a specific landscape—the Erne River and surrounding villages. Unlike broader nationalist or mythic themes in 19th-century Irish poetry, it focuses on ordinary, lived geography, rendering place as personal memory rather than symbolic ideal.
Emotional Framework: Grief and gratitude mix in equal measure, expressed through repetition of farewells and cataloging of natural and communal details. The speaker’s sorrow is grounded in continuity—the life he leaves will go on without him—heightening the sense of personal loss rather than dramatic rupture.
Structure and Rhythm: Stanzas follow a ballad-like pattern with quatrains and alternating tetrameter and trimeter lines, producing a lilting, almost song-like cadence. This fits Allingham’s tendency in lesser-known works to prioritize musicality over metrical innovation, aligning with Victorian ballad traditions but not pushing beyond them.
Relation to Allingham’s Oeuvre: Compared to his more celebrated Day and Night Songs, which catered to a childlike sensibility, this poem reveals a mature, localized lyricism. It belongs to a cluster of his regional writings that are less anthologized but more emotionally anchored, showcasing a side of Allingham rarely highlighted in mainstream scholarship.
Contrast with Contemporaries: While peers like Tennyson or Arnold turned inward or philosophical, this poem resists abstraction. It avoids allegory and introspection in favor of a detailed, almost ethnographic inventory of locale, resembling regional sketches by lesser-known Victorian folk poets but without overt didacticism.
Reception and Obscurity: Though not widely read today, the poem exemplifies Allingham’s preoccupation with Irish place-identity before the Celtic Revival fully politicized such themes. Its absence from major anthologies may stem from its lack of overt political or romantic posturing, yet its documentary tone anticipates 20th-century regional writing.
Less-Discussed Angle: Economic Subtext: Implicit in the farewell is emigration driven by economic necessity, not choice—”my back I’m forced to turn” suggests displacement. Unlike romanticized exile narratives, the speaker doesn’t seek glory but mourns irreversible separation, a theme underemphasized in critiques focused on nostalgia alone.
Natural Description and Function: Landscape is not idealized; it’s enumerated with functional precision—fishing practices, tides, boat movements, and seasonal tourism. These details serve as memory triggers rather than aesthetic objects, showing how labor and environment shape belonging.
Community and Identity: The repeated mention of local residents—Kildoney lads, oarsmen, summer visitors—frames identity as collective and participatory. Unlike solitary Romantic wanderers, the speaker derives selfhood from communal presence, making exile a severance from social texture.
Temporal Scope: The poem spans daily routines, seasonal recreation, and geological spans (“six hundred yards in air aloft”), compressing time to underscore permanence of place against transience of human life. This quiet contrast avoids dramatics but deepens the emotional weight.
Final Stanzas and Closure: The abrupt truncation—”Adieu to evening dances, / when merry neighbours meet, / And the fiddle”—mirrors the incompleteness of departure. The break suggests the speaker cannot finish the song, a structural choice rare in Allingham and uncommon for its era, edging toward modern fragmentation without fully embracing it.
Historical Context: Written during mass Irish emigration, the poem reflects a quiet, personal dimension of displacement absent from polemical or patriotic verse of the time. It resists both colonial mimicry and defiant nationalism, occupying a middle ground of personal lament.
Place in Late Victorian Poetry: While most Victorian verse sought moral or spiritual closure, this poem offers none. It ends mid-phrase, resisting redemption or return. Such open-endedness is atypical for its time and anticipates modernist sensibilities, albeit in restrained form.
Comparative Note: Compared to Heaney’s later landscape poetry, which decodes myth and violence in Irish terrain, this work is simpler but prefigures attention to topography as identity. It lacks Heaney’s linguistic density but shares a belief in land as embodied memory.
Legacy and Influence: Though not a landmark poem, it serves as a bridge between 19th-century regionalism and 20th-century Irish literary attention to locality. Its understated tone and focus on mundane continuity make it a quiet precursor to later, more complex treatments of place.
Emotional Framework: Grief and gratitude mix in equal measure, expressed through repetition of farewells and cataloging of natural and communal details. The speaker’s sorrow is grounded in continuity—the life he leaves will go on without him—heightening the sense of personal loss rather than dramatic rupture.
Structure and Rhythm: Stanzas follow a ballad-like pattern with quatrains and alternating tetrameter and trimeter lines, producing a lilting, almost song-like cadence. This fits Allingham’s tendency in lesser-known works to prioritize musicality over metrical innovation, aligning with Victorian ballad traditions but not pushing beyond them.
Relation to Allingham’s Oeuvre: Compared to his more celebrated Day and Night Songs, which catered to a childlike sensibility, this poem reveals a mature, localized lyricism. It belongs to a cluster of his regional writings that are less anthologized but more emotionally anchored, showcasing a side of Allingham rarely highlighted in mainstream scholarship.
Contrast with Contemporaries: While peers like Tennyson or Arnold turned inward or philosophical, this poem resists abstraction. It avoids allegory and introspection in favor of a detailed, almost ethnographic inventory of locale, resembling regional sketches by lesser-known Victorian folk poets but without overt didacticism.
Reception and Obscurity: Though not widely read today, the poem exemplifies Allingham’s preoccupation with Irish place-identity before the Celtic Revival fully politicized such themes. Its absence from major anthologies may stem from its lack of overt political or romantic posturing, yet its documentary tone anticipates 20th-century regional writing.
Less-Discussed Angle: Economic Subtext: Implicit in the farewell is emigration driven by economic necessity, not choice—”my back I’m forced to turn” suggests displacement. Unlike romanticized exile narratives, the speaker doesn’t seek glory but mourns irreversible separation, a theme underemphasized in critiques focused on nostalgia alone.
Natural Description and Function: Landscape is not idealized; it’s enumerated with functional precision—fishing practices, tides, boat movements, and seasonal tourism. These details serve as memory triggers rather than aesthetic objects, showing how labor and environment shape belonging.
Community and Identity: The repeated mention of local residents—Kildoney lads, oarsmen, summer visitors—frames identity as collective and participatory. Unlike solitary Romantic wanderers, the speaker derives selfhood from communal presence, making exile a severance from social texture.
Temporal Scope: The poem spans daily routines, seasonal recreation, and geological spans (“six hundred yards in air aloft”), compressing time to underscore permanence of place against transience of human life. This quiet contrast avoids dramatics but deepens the emotional weight.
Final Stanzas and Closure: The abrupt truncation—”Adieu to evening dances, / when merry neighbours meet, / And the fiddle”—mirrors the incompleteness of departure. The break suggests the speaker cannot finish the song, a structural choice rare in Allingham and uncommon for its era, edging toward modern fragmentation without fully embracing it.
Historical Context: Written during mass Irish emigration, the poem reflects a quiet, personal dimension of displacement absent from polemical or patriotic verse of the time. It resists both colonial mimicry and defiant nationalism, occupying a middle ground of personal lament.
Place in Late Victorian Poetry: While most Victorian verse sought moral or spiritual closure, this poem offers none. It ends mid-phrase, resisting redemption or return. Such open-endedness is atypical for its time and anticipates modernist sensibilities, albeit in restrained form.
Comparative Note: Compared to Heaney’s later landscape poetry, which decodes myth and violence in Irish terrain, this work is simpler but prefigures attention to topography as identity. It lacks Heaney’s linguistic density but shares a belief in land as embodied memory.
Legacy and Influence: Though not a landmark poem, it serves as a bridge between 19th-century regionalism and 20th-century Irish literary attention to locality. Its understated tone and focus on mundane continuity make it a quiet precursor to later, more complex treatments of place.
William Allingham (19 March 1824 – 18 November 1889) was an Irish poet, diarist and editor. He wrote several volumes of lyric verse, and his poem “The Faeries” was much anthologised. But he is better known for his posthumously published Diary, in which he records his lively encounters with Tennyson, Carlyle and other writers and artists. His wife, Helen Allingham, was a well-known artist, watercolourist and illustrator.
