My Own Dear Finian’s Bay

The following song gives an intense sense of longing for and belonging to an area. In short the very definition of ‘home’. Enforced emigration through lack of opportunity or financial necessity has been the unfortunate truth for many, both in the past and in more recent times. For some emigrants, after a number of years away, the journey home became an impossible one. The song was composed by John Foley, New Road, Reencaheragh, Portmagee. He was a near relative of the poet Diarmuid Ó Failbhe an file a chum ‘An Gheadach Dá Crú sa Ghleann’. It was first recorded in 1988 by Peter Locke, Tralee, It was donated to the Binneas project by Pat O’Leary, Ballynabloun,  The Glen, a gentleman who is a well of knowledge on the genealogy and history of the area.

Source: Pat O’Leary, Ballynabloun, The Glen (Private Collection)

Air ‘Lovely Leitrim’

Last night as I lay slumbering in far off Taniree,

I dreamt I was a boy once more in my own dear Portmagee,

In that fond dream I had a gleam of sixty years away,

Where the sunny sky enarches high my own dear Finian’s Bay.

I dreamt I stood on Bolus Hill where I often stood of yore,

Where the summer sun sank gently down near sea-bound Corormore,

And as I viewed my native vale ‘mid nature’s grand array,

I heaved and sighed – you’re Ireland’s pride, my own dear Finian’s Bay.

Around me stood in calmly mood the hills my childhood loved,

And far and bright were seen the heights in boyhood free I roamed,

Each tower and tree were plain to me each lot and hamlet gay,

That decked the land and well known ways, my own dear Finian’s Bay.

Beneath my view ‘mid waters blue I saw the rocks of Drom,

The silvery sand of William’s Strand and sunlit Ballinahown,

Faha bridge where oft I trudged yet spans the reeking spray,

That dashes wide in every side unto Finian’s Bay

In the green wood near in accents clear the thrushes yet there sing,

While with the breeze among the trees Denny Kelly’s anvil rings,

Reminding me a stór mo chroí of many a pleasant day,

Where the sparks did fly and yarns went high, on the road to Finian’s bay.

And I could hear the sweeping waves that roll along the sea,

Those pleasant purple billows that filled my infancy,

Where oft with seine and net and hook I watched that mighty play,

As they dashed in glee o’er bog and lea down to St. Finian’s Bay.

I saw my parents’ humble grave in St.Finian’s by the sea,

And neatly in between them they left a place for me,

They left a place and hoped to trace that rambling boy away,

Who left those dales and golden vales around St. Finian’s Bay.

Amid those scenes so beautiful – the puffins break and roar,

As if to rouse my kith and kin who sleep by “Caladh’s” shore,

And vowed to God that to that sod I may return someday,

My bones to rest near Keel’s new church beside you Finian’s Bay

John Foley, New Road, Reencaheragh, Portmagee