The ocean is dashing
Its waves o’er the strand
That shelters Sheep Haven
With hillocks of sand.
M‘Swyne’s Gun is winding
His horn o’er the lea,
Atlantic is grinding
The dust of the sea.
It cuts from the fields,
Lough, haven, and bay,
And dark Donegal yields
To its constant sword-play.
Through infinite inlets
It pours willy-nilly,
Into Ness and Mulroy,
Sheep Haven and Swilly.
Atlantic was born
Bluff, boisterous, coy;
It may storm at the Horn
When it coos at Mulroy.
The ocean is silent,
Or noisy or sullen;
It may sleep at Melmore,
Or rage at Rathmullan.
The ghosts of Saldanha
Still walk at Port Salon;
The bones of the Spaniards
Lie deep off the Aran.
In spite of these mem’ries,
Or because of them all,
The breeze carries gladness
Over dark Donegal.
Dunfanaghy, September 2, 1913.