"Killarney", by "E.R.", June 30th, 1930
Killarney, thine elusive charm,
Would surely carping words disarm,
And tempt, in simple homely lays,
A poet's measures in thy praise:
Here nested on this rock girt coast,
A hundred years has been thy boast,
As much a part of wind and tide
As the swift gulls that with thee ride
Shut in by barrier hills about,
The waters are thy one way out;
How safe thy people shut indoors,
When winter storms beat on thy shores.
A wide domain thou dost survey
All the north end of Georgian Bay
Thy boats sweep out so swift and true
O'er many a mile of water blue,
With fisher craft, from out the deep,
The harvest of the nets to reap.
In summer time, the children play
Along the shore, and toss the spray,
Like shining raindrops, from their hair,
Seeking some hidden water lair.
The simple priest looks on and smiles,
Watching with a father' wiles,
Guarding 'gainst folly's undertow,
And temptation's rocks below.
George Island lifts a water brake
The pounding of the waves to take,
And makes a harbour deep, secure,
'Gainst every storm that doth inure:
A board walk, broken and decayed,
Leads to a wharf but newly made;
An upturned boat, its service done,
Lies dismantled in the sun;
And "Danger" warns from a treacherous dock,
That long has weathered the tempest's shock;
Why should man's hand remove the ruin,
When Time will do it all too soon?
But true poetic charm were past,
If here improvements came too fast;
Some places still must stand apart,
As healing scanturies of the heart;
And then to guard 'gainst high disdain,
The blessed church bell rings again.
The heaved red granite stretches bare,
But for the lichen, and polished where,
The rain for centuries has beat,
And waves have washed about thy feet;
But in the crevices the trees
Have thrust their living roots, and these
Give shelter and cool patterned shade
Where leaves and mosses have decayed.
From Sunset Rock you find your way
To a sheltered spot beside the bay;
There with reverberating sound,
The quarrie's whistle breaks around;
Among the rocks the echoes roll,
Like bugles calling to the soul;
Far in the distance you can view,
A cloud of smoke against the blue;
Your boat is coming into port,
Killarney days are all too short.