To Editors of the Carlow Senitinel    Oct 26th '41¹

Kinsale Oct 26^th ’41

Sir,

Encouraged by the success of a former experiment² I once more obtrude myself on your notice – my present performance speaks for itself – further preface would be needless – should this attempt meet your approbation pray be so kind as to suppress my name as before

I remain Sir &c | John Tyndall

The Ed. of the Carlow Sentinel

Carlow³

Sweet spot! where first th’ imperfect accent hung

In lingering lispings on my infant tongue

Where young imagination first took flight

And roam’d unshackled thro’ the realms of light,

When bright and happy life’s perspective shone

And golden vistas opened farther on

Each dancing stream that woos the sun’s bright rays

Each wee wild flower that blossoms on thy braes⁴

Each shrub that sheds its fragrance in the dell

Around my soul has cast a hallowed spell –

Sweet blissful spot! where Barrow⁵ fair and free

Rolls liquid chrystal to the distant sea

Fall oft when morning tinged the orient sky

And heav’ns calm azure spread itself on high

I’ve trod thy banks in summer beauty drest

T’inhale the breeze that freshened o’er thy breath

And when from Zenith⁶ fall the scorching ray

In reckless frolic gambolled with thy spray

Ere sanguine strife thy hollows had bestained

Or friendship mourned her Sacred Courts profaned

Her glimmering incense cheered each passing gloom

The heart its altar – union its perfume

Oh then approving heaven smiled to see

Congenial bosoms throb in sympathy

Alas how changed, these Halcyon days⁷ are o’er

And drooping Carlow must their loss deplore

Now agitation whelms her like a flood

And noisome vermin* gloat upon her blood

Where peace sat smiling gloomy terror reigns

And Ate⁸ revels o’er thy lovely plains

Discords black banner now each Zephyr fills

And darkly hovering o’er thy sunny hills

Each cloudlet big with desolation hangs

While reeking ’neath O’Connell’s vampyre fangs⁹

Prostrate you lie – each burning tear that’s shed

Calls down damnation on his guilty head

What tho’ the fiat¹⁰ linger on the tongue

of Justice – tho’ the hair-held sword¹¹ has hung

So long above thee waiting the decree

of slumbering vengeance to descend on thee

Tho’ Titan-like¹² you raise your impious hand

And brandish in high heav’ns face your brand

Thy day arrives – the widow’s withering ban¹³

Shall burst in thunders o’er thee – bloody man.

Nor lost to fame in ages yet to come

Fell infamy still brood upon thy tongue

And execution grim shall mark the spot

Where low you lie – detested not forgot

*Bugs &c.

RI MS JT/8/2/1/3–4