A Tale of The Moy

A Tale of The Moy

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NEAR the Moy’s wild and swollen flood,

Two feudal Castles once had stood

Of banks of emerald sheen—

The current dashed between—

MacWilliam Burke’s was Belleek,

O’Connor’s was Quignaleke.

MacWilliam Burke intensely loved

O’Connor’s stately daughter proud;

Blooming, as a rosebud in Spring—

When birds soft lullabies sing.

Ripe as yellow corn in Ardraigh,

A beauty, golden-haired, was she.

Lov’d by her too, was the young chief,

Brave in soul – unknown to grief,

His dark eyes flash’d internal fire,

Woe to him, who provok’d his ire!

Quick, as a swallow in a storm,

After a foe, fled his dark form!

Alas! for the lovers, visions bright

A twinkling glare was here in sight:

O’Connor, inexorable, like his clan,

Forbad the daughter’s marriage ban;

MacWilliam resolv’d his wrath to breast,

And enjoy her, so lovely and caress’d!

Fierce blew a wild autumn’s blast—

The sky with dark clouds o’ercast—

Night’s thick sable curtain spread

With awe-imposing grandeur dread!

O’er the roaring, overwhelming fall,

Which fronted Belleek’s strong Castle wall.

Nimble as the wounded fawn,

That skips with pale morning’s dawn,

MacWilliam to his Corrach flew,

Heedless the stormy winds that blew;

With his harp whose Nolian strings

Enraptur’d oft the halls of kings.

When arriv’d on the other side,

Down he sat by the ebbing tide;

And to music’s thrilling numbers

Awoke the lady from her slumbers;

The harp she once had heard before,

Each tender note convinced her more.

The saffron robe on herself she drew,

And to her lover’s open arms flew;

Bright, as a sunbeam glowed her cheek,

When her dazzling blue eyes saw Belleek,

With flaming torch, on turrets height,

Casting his glare that stormy night:

Into the Corragh went the pair,

The roaring tempest rent the air,

The little skiff, like a feather toss’d,

O’er the angry waters crossed;

The lady, her harp tun’d o’er the surge—

Alas! ’twas her sad requiem dirge!

When the lovers were nearing shore,

And driven far as Inch Fo Mohr—

Under that abbey’s gothic tower

They perished, not in hall not bow’r,

But ’neath the Moy’s rolling waters dark

Vanish’d their lives last kindling spark!

O’er Slieve Ovh—the morrows’s sun rose bright—

Oh! that it shone after suc h a fatal night!

In others arms, lock’d, twin’d, and breasted,

MacWilliam’s heart, on that fair bosom rested;

So were they found on the yellow strand—

Manhood and beauty sublimely grand!

Tow’ring o’er their ashes grow the pine,

And sweetly sings the thrush her notes divine;

There the orient sun’s first rays glean,

With purple light on the Moy’s broad stream;

A golden hair’d beauty, still there roves,

Belleek! what charms linger ’mid thy groves?

                                     William Kearney

                                                       Ballina, 4th October, 1850.