Iveragh

This song was composed by P.M. Coffey while resident in the U.S.A. He came from Cloghanelinaghan, Over the water. Matt Joe O’Neil, of Deelis, recalls his mother, Mrs Ellen O’Neill nee Casey, telling him that she met the composer of this song in Chicago, Illinois circa 1920’s. A fragment of another song in the Binneas collection attributed to the composer states ‘The night Pat Kiely died, the banshee cried, around the slopes of Castlequin’

Could I combine, with muses nine, or drink of the Pierian Spring;

Or were I possessed, of a brighter zest, how freely would I sing.

I poetic lines, where genius shines, and thoughts from fancy draw,

In a spirited way, I’d write a lay, about lovely bold Iveragh

E’re I begin, I must give in, for its beauties I can’t define.

Its circular raths, and winding paths, where blossoms and leaves entwine;

To the sequestered glens, and sacred dens, in lovely bold Iveragh.

In any land, the sea beyond, where can brighter scenes be found,

Than its panoramic glades; and leafy shades, that encircle it around;

And its indented coasts, which travellers boast, the fairest they e’er saw,

With its numerous creeks, and serrated peaks, in lovely bold Iveragh.

On its emerald lands, there proudly stands, a ruin of loved esteem,

Near Fertha’s side a place of pride, overlooking that noble stream.

Of peerless fame, as histories claim, O’Connell, the light there saw,

‘Neath the lofty fells, and wooded dells, in lovely famed Iveragh.

Its castles high, you can descry, though pommelled years ago.

Ere Cromwell came, his lust to claim, they kept vigil o’er the foe;

And its echoing caves, when the ocean laves, the shores of wild Bealtragh.

Amid the oceans crest, lie in the west, of lovely bold Iveragh.

By Coomasaharan’s brakes, and silvery lakes, lie beauties of every hue;

Between Rehill’s crags, the agile stags, rise to the hunters view,

And Killoe’s defiles, and natural stiles, depict the scene with awe.

With Caharn’s bowers, and conical towers, in lovely wild Iveragh.

By Niagra’s glades and wild cascades, with wonder I have gazed;

And Superior’s shore of silvery ore, by refulgent views amazed.

The mountains blue, I went to view, but still I never saw.

Any spot so sweet, that could compete, with lovely famed Iveragh.

Any prose or verse would here be terse, its beauties to deploy.

My thoughts I’d blend, in loftier trend, could I myself apply.

To write with zeal, as bardies leal, inspired with high eclat-

And proudly rhyme, on a western clime, far away from bold Iveragh.