Dark Donegal.

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.[D] 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[E] 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.