There is a green island
in lone Gougane Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;
In deep-valley'd Desmond - a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake from their homes in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
by J.J. Callanan.