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,
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 neighbours 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;
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!
A.M. Forrester
Ireland's Lore and Tales 