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John Reade. 1837-1919Although born in Ballyshannon, John Reade’s parents, Joseph Reade and Mary Smyth came from Pettigo. He emigrated to Canada in 1856 where he became one of the best known Canadian poets of the latter half of the 19th century. At his death he was described as “The Dean of Canadian Literature.” He became general editor of the Montreal Gazette and held this position for the rest of his life. In 1870 he published a much acclaimed volume of verse entitled "The Prophecy of Merlin and other Poems". This volume made his name in Canada. He was a wonderful linguist and translated poetry from Latin, Greek, Italian and French. He died unmarried and is buried in Montreal. John Reade took a keen interest in Canadian politics and fervently supported the idea of Canadian Confederation.He never forgot Ballyshannon and this poem about the town was in “Treasury of Canadian Verse” by Theodore H. Rand of Toronto in 1910 and in many other collections of verse. It is a lovely pen picture of Ballyshannon as he remembered it in the middle of the 19th century.1.Here is the old church. Now I see it all –The hills, the sea, the bridge, the waterfall.The dear old sleepy town is still abedAlthough the eastern clouds are tinged with red.And everything is as of this graveyard still,Except the soldiers at their morning drill,And in the Pool a fishing boat or twoBelated, homeward pulled with weary oar,And the dim curlews on the distant shore,And the lark soaring through the ether blue.And now the lazy smoke curls through the air –I will go down and see who tenant there,And meet old friends. “First, wanderer, look aroundAnd see what friends of thine are underground!2.The mountains gather round thee as of yore,O holy lake, across whose tranquil breast,Was borne the saint who to the farthest westBrought the sweet knowledge that transcends all lore. There on the islet at the chapel doorThe penitents are kneeling, while alongThere flows the mystic tide of sacred songTo where I stand upon the rugged shore.But now there is a silence weird and dread –And utter loneliness is in my heart.It came to seek the living but the dead –This is their welcome. Slowly I depart,Nor read the name beneath a single cross –He still is rich who does not know his loss.3.There is the schoolhouse, there the lake, the lawn;And there, just fronting it, the barrack square;But of all those I knew not one is there –Even the old gatekeeper – he is gone.Ah, me! Ah me! When last I stood uponThis grassy mound, with what proud hopes elateI was to wrestle with the strength of fateAnd conquer! Now – I live and that is all.Oh! happier those whose lot it was to fallIn noble conflict with their countries foesFar on the shores of Taurie Chersonese!Nay, all are blest who answer duty’s call,But – do I dream our wake? What ghosts are these?Hush, throbbing heart! These are the ghosts of those.4.Oh! what could wake to life that first sweet flameThat warmed my heart when by the little bayOn blissful summer evenings I layBeneath our thorn-bush, waiting till she cameWho was for me far more than wealth or fame,But yet for whom I wished all fair things mine,To make her, if she could be, more divineBy outer splendour and a noble name.Now I may wait in vain from early mornTill sunset for the music of her feet. And yet how little change has come uponThis fairy scene her beauty made so sweet!It weareth still the glory of her smile. Ah! If she were but here a little while.John Reade, Irish Canadian Poet, Ballyshannon and Killynoogan Townland, Fermanagh. 5397503873500Killynoogan is a fertile little townland close to where the Termon River flows into Lough Erne below Pettigo. In times gone by it had a mill and a distillery owned by the Reade Family. The distillery is noted in a return to the Irish Parliament of the distilleries of Ireland in 1780. It was obviously an area of some economic importance in the past but most of this is now forgotten as also is the fame of one of the most notable people ever to trace his ancestry to the Pettigo area; the Canadian poet John Reade. He was born in Ballyshannon but his grandfather was a Reade of Killynoogan.In Canada hardly an anthology of poetry published there did not have some of his poems in it over a period of fifty or sixty years at the end of the last century and the beginning of this. On the occasion of John Reade’s death in Montreal in 1919 the following words were written by the Canadian, historian and author, John Boyd.John Reade is dead—-the sad words tell A nation’s loss; whilst bowed the head Ring softly bells a requiem knell,A poet’s soul has fled.With length of days, with honour crowned, With love his lot was blest,At death no darkling shadow frowned, He gently passed to rest.John Reade was born in Ballyshannon and emigrated from there in 1856. At his death he was described as the “Dean of Canadian Literature”. He was the son of Joseph Reade and Francis Smyth who were natives of Pettigo. John’s grandfather lived at Killynoogan, and his poem of that name is one of his finest. It demonstrates his great attachment to the little townland and the locality of Pettigo which he never forgot. The American poet, William Longfellow, included Killynoogan” in his collection of poems about places.Killynoogan is a fertile little townland close to where the Termon River flows into Lough Erne below Pettigo. In times gone by it had a mill and a distillery owned by the Reade Family. The distillery is noted in a return to the Irish Parliament of the distilleries of Ireland in 1780. It was obviously an area of some economic importance in the past but most of this is now forgotten as also is the fame of one of the most notable people ever to trace his ancestry to the Pettigo area; the Canadian poet John Reade. He was born in Ballyshannon but his grandfather was a Reade of Killynoogan. In Canada hardly an anthology of poetry published there did not have some of his poems in it over a period of fifty or sixty years at the end of the last century and the beginning of this. On the occasion of John Reade’s death in Montreal in 1919 the following words were written by the Canadian, historian and author, John Boyd.John Reade is dead—-the sad words tell A nation’s loss; whilst bowed the head Ring softly bells a requiem knell,A poet’s soul has fled.With length of days, with honour crowned, With love his lot was blest,At death no darkling shadow frowned, He gently passed to rest.John Reade was born in Ballyshannon and emigrated from there in 1856. At his death he was described as the “Dean of Canadian Literature”. He was the son of Joseph Reade and Francis Smyth who were natives of Pettigo. John’s grandfather lived at Killynoogan, and his poem of that name is one of his finest. It demonstrates his great attachment to the little townland and the locality of Pettigo which he never forgot. The American poet, William Longfellow, included Killynoogan” in his collection of poems about places.Killynoogan.1.Killynoogan, - hallowed name, - Though thou’rt little known to fame, My heart’s homage thou dost claim.2.Though to stranger ears thou beBut a word of mystery, Meaning deep thou hast for me.3.All thy quaint old masonry Now before my eyes I see, As, of old it used to be.4.Ah! too well I can recallEvery stone in every wall,- In my heart I count them all.5. And the lawn before the door, I can see it as of yore,Bright with spangled daisies o’er.6.And the hedge, along whose side, Oft, in childhood, I have triedTo escape, when playing “hide”.7. And the miniature wood,Where in boyhood I have suedCoyisn maiden Solitude.8.And the garden full of flowers, Where I’ve past romantic hours, Dreaming of fair ladies’ bowers.9.In the orchard, stretched at ease, On the grass, I hear the breeze Piping ‘mong the apple trees.10.While from many a leafy nook, Grave as parson at his book, Rook replieth unto rook.11.I can hear the river’s flow As it murmers soft and low, Bringing news from Pettigo.12.I can watch it to the mill, Where the never-tiring wheel Dances round and drinks its fill.13.Past the ever bubbling “spa,” Past the Castle of Magra,Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,14.On it goes with many a turn, Playing with it’s fringe of fern, Till it touches broad Lough Erne.15.Here I leave thee, little stream, Lost, like much I dearest deem, In my life’s oft shifting dream.16.Lost ! but let me backward haste, I have little time to wasteIn my ramble through the past.17.Words are cumbersome, at times, Thought could visit fifty climes, While I’m seeking useless rhymes.18.I am back upon the lawn, That I’ve often stood upon, But - is every body gone ?13.Past the ever bubbling “spa,” Past the Castle of Magra,Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,14.On it goes with many a turn, Playing with it’s fringe of fern, Till it touches broad Lough Erne.15.Here I leave thee, little stream, Lost, like much I dearest deem, In my life’s oft shifting dream.16.Lost ! but let me backward haste, I have little time to wasteIn my ramble through the past.17.Words are cumbersome, at times, Thought could visit fifty climes, While I’m seeking useless rhymes.18.I am back upon the lawn, That I’ve often stood upon, But - is every body gone ?19.Knock, - is anyone within ? Not a sound except the dinOf the mice, - they must be thin.20.Look along the avenue, Is there any one in view ? Surely, this can not be true ?21.Put your ear upon the ground ! Listen ! Is there any sound ? Every thing is hushed around.22.Oh ! I dream ! I might have known ; I have wandered, - they are gone, And of four remains but one.23.Two were young and two were old; Three are lying stark and coldIn death’s rigid, icy fold.24.Dear old Killynoogan, thee, Once so full of life and glee, Lifeless, desolate, I see !25.But, beloved and sacred spot, Nought of thee shall be forgot, Till what I am now - is not. Drumhariff Hill.Short is the way from friend to friend-.The quiet village lies below,And leading to my journey's endThe little river windeth slow.Like yesterday it seems, and yetI meet few faces that I know;It is so long, then, since I crossedDrumhariff hill to Pettigo. ................
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