An Irish Crazy Quilt 1890

THE CHURCH OF BALLYMORE.

I HAVE knelt in great cathedrals with their wondrous naves and aisles,

Whose fairy arches blend and interlace,

Where the sunlight on the paintings like a ray of glory smiles,

And the shadows seem to sanctify the place;

Where the organ’s tones, like echoes of an angel’s trumpet roll,

Wafted down by seraph wings from heaven’s shore—

They are mighty and majestic, but they cannot touch my soul

Like the little whitewashed church of Ballymore.

Ah! modest little chapel, half-embowered in the trees,

Though the roof above its worshippers was low,

And the earth bore traces sometimes of the congregation’s knees,

While they themselves were bent with toil and woe!

Milan, Cologne, St. Peter’s—by the feet of monarchs trod—

With their monumental genius and their lore,

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Never knew in their magnificence more trustful prayers to God

Than ascended to His throne from Ballymore!

Its priest was plain and simple, and he scorned to hide his brogue

In accents that we might not understand,

But there was not in the parish such a renegade or rogue

As to think his words not heaven’s own command!

He seemed our cares and troubles and our sorrows to divide,

And he never passed the poorest peasant’s door—

In sickness he was with us, and in death still by our side—

God be with you, Father Tom, of Ballymore.

There’s a green graveyard behind it, and in dreams at night I see

Each little modest slab and grassy mound;

For my gentle mother’s sleeping ’neath the withered rowan tree,

And a host of kindly neighbors lie around!

The famine and the fever through our stricken country spread,

Desolation was about me, sad and sore,

So I had to cross the waters, in strange lands to seek my bread,

But I left my heart behind in Ballymore!

I am proud of our cathedrals—they are emblems of our love

To an ever-mighty Benefactor shown;

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And when wealth and art and beauty have been given from above,

The devil should not have them as his own!

Their splendor has inspired me—but amidst it all I prayed

God to grant me, when life’s weary work is o’er,

Sweet rest beside my mother in the dear embracing shade

Of the little whitewashed church of Ballymore!