How many happy days!
And shall I, thankless, not indite
Some trifle in thy praise?
Shall I, who from thy wholesome breeze
Have drunk deep draughts of health,
In churlish silence hide the boom
Nor tell the world thy wealth?
Dear little homely, friendly town
Sweet jewel by the sea:
No lapsing time, nor lengthening miles
Can wean my heart from thee.
No frowing height of dangerous cliff
Scowls on thy curving bays;
Where, safe as on their nursery floor
A world of children plays.
And on thy island-guarded beach
No thundering surges roar; *
But, over slopes of tawny sand,
Lap whispering to the shore
No frowning height of dangerous cliff
Scowls on thy curving bays;
Where, safe as on their nursery floor
A world of children plays.
And on thy island-guarded beach
No thundering surges roar; *
But, over slopes of tawny sand,
Lap whispering to the shore.
Here let them come who sunny hours
Would, peaceful, dream away.
Here hasten too, ye sons of mirth,
And hold high holiday!
Some climb time-gaunt Baldungan’s tower
The landward airs to breathe,
Or scan, fair-chequered gold and green,
The wealthy plains of Meath.
Here, while upon your emerald links
The care worn counts his score,
The golfer’s heart leaps up or sinks
As strokes are less or more.
Then, all unmindful of past grief
“Bogey” he marks with glee *
But, ah! the Recording Angel’s pen
Writes down a century!
Mark well yon old Martello Tower *
Where twilight couples rove
Strong bulwark, once, against the French, *
But small defence from Love.
Here by, the halls of dance resound
To soft melodious moan
Of harp and flute and violin,
Or sobbing saxophone.
And, surely, music plays its part
In Love’s perfidious plan;
But silver moonlight best completes
The work sweet strings began.
Chill as old love, the waning moon
Creeps, downcast, from the skies;
Restless as youth, the dancing waves
Laugh back the bold sunrise.
With pleasure, jaded girl and lad
From quivering spring-board hurled,
Plunge in the brine; and rise to greet
A new-created world!
Such raptures, innocence and fun,
Our Skerries doth afford,
From the first breath of blue-skied Spring
Till Autumn barns his hoard. *
( Sure, on its streets the kindly sun
Looks more benignant down;
And holy Patrick, from his isle,
Has blessed the little town. )
Sweet Skerries, in my thoughts you dwell,
And, like your faithful sea,
Slowly I withdraw me from thy sands,
But still come back to me.
Composed by L.D. or Lynn C. Doyle Feb. 1928
Recorded for SHS by John Beggs 1995
“L.D. was manager of the Northern Bank. His name was Montgomery. I am not sure if he left Skerries before the Congress year 1932, but I can remember him well. Wish I was 18 again to do the Octirno Waltz or Foxtrot. I would trip myself now if I tried it.” J. Beggs 1 / 2 / 1995
* Very slight changes from Mr. Beggs’ version. These were obtained from a version recorded by Marie Derham GNS, for the schools’ folklore project. ( 3rd June 1938)
( ) Verse in Marie Derham’s but not in John Beggs’ version.
. . .the boom = thy boon ? . . . me = thee ? ( ed.)