BSW3 14. An emigrant's farewell
Nov 04, 2021, 06:47 PM
Speaker: Michael Gallagher
From the Bluestack Way Part 3 playlist.
If you were to turn right after Lughnabrogue and Cloghmeen Hill and carry on past Carnaween, you'd be going in the direction of Meenalig by the Reelan river.
Paddy McGroary had been reared in the bare mountainless townland of Meenalig and in 1883 he sailed for the United States. Some sixty years later, these lines were found by his friends in Connecticut, where he died. They’d been written in his own hand some weeks before: -
On St. Patrick's Day of ’43 I let my thoughts roll back,
To see what the toll of sixty years had done to the old shack,
Where boys and girls would gather to trip a reel or jig,
While the turf fire bright kept up the light in dear old Meenalig.
With a morning sup of poteen I would peep across the sky,
View mists along the valleys, see if the hills look nigh,
Take a loving eye at Carn-na-ween with its image of Finn McCool,
Look towards the heights of the Grey Mare’s Tail and the lofty hills of Schruel.
So often in those good old days, I allowed my eyes to stray,
From Eglish on to dear Ardban, Letterfad, and old Tullay,
Lough Eske so sweet, and Drawin so steep, Lacrum and Augherbeg,
From Legan on through Golands, and back home to Meenalig.
St. Patrick’s Day is over and my pen begins to stall,
With an old man’s prayer to Meelanig and dear old Donegal,
A last farewell to Barnesmore, Stranorlar and Strabane,
Down through Lough Foyle with a weary heart and back to Uncle Sam.
In our audio piece, postman Michael Gallagher tells us about the passing of things in the Meenalig valley - in this case the last time he'll see sheep been taken up the mountains.
From the Bluestack Way Part 3 playlist.
If you were to turn right after Lughnabrogue and Cloghmeen Hill and carry on past Carnaween, you'd be going in the direction of Meenalig by the Reelan river.
Paddy McGroary had been reared in the bare mountainless townland of Meenalig and in 1883 he sailed for the United States. Some sixty years later, these lines were found by his friends in Connecticut, where he died. They’d been written in his own hand some weeks before: -
On St. Patrick's Day of ’43 I let my thoughts roll back,
To see what the toll of sixty years had done to the old shack,
Where boys and girls would gather to trip a reel or jig,
While the turf fire bright kept up the light in dear old Meenalig.
With a morning sup of poteen I would peep across the sky,
View mists along the valleys, see if the hills look nigh,
Take a loving eye at Carn-na-ween with its image of Finn McCool,
Look towards the heights of the Grey Mare’s Tail and the lofty hills of Schruel.
So often in those good old days, I allowed my eyes to stray,
From Eglish on to dear Ardban, Letterfad, and old Tullay,
Lough Eske so sweet, and Drawin so steep, Lacrum and Augherbeg,
From Legan on through Golands, and back home to Meenalig.
St. Patrick’s Day is over and my pen begins to stall,
With an old man’s prayer to Meelanig and dear old Donegal,
A last farewell to Barnesmore, Stranorlar and Strabane,
Down through Lough Foyle with a weary heart and back to Uncle Sam.
In our audio piece, postman Michael Gallagher tells us about the passing of things in the Meenalig valley - in this case the last time he'll see sheep been taken up the mountains.