The Emigrant’s Adieu to Ballyshannon
William Allingham (1824–1889)
A LOCAL BALLAD
Adieu to Ballyshannon! where I was bred and born;
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as night and morn.
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known,
And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own;
There's not a house or window, there's not a field or hill,
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I recollect them still.
I leave my warm heart with you, tho' my back I'm forced to turn
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!
No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter down the Mall,
When the trout is rising to the fly, the salmon to the fall.
The boat comes straining on her net, and heavily she creeps,
Cast off, cast off— she feels the oars, and to her berth she sweeps;
Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gathering up the clew,
Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among the crew.
Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many a joke and “yarn”;—
Adieu to Ballyshannon; and the winding banks of Erne!
The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the tide,
When all the greenhill'd harbour is full from side to side,
From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round the Abbey Bay,
From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand-hills gray;
While far upon the southern line, to guard it like a wall,
The Leitrim mountains clothed in blue gaze calmly over all,
And watch the ship sail up or down, the red flag at her stern;—
Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them that pull an oar,
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point to Mullaghmore;
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that ocean-Mountain steep,
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred in the deep,
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round by Tullen strand,
Level and long, and white with waves, where gull and curlew stand;
Head out to sea when on your lee the breakers you discern!—
Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding banks of Erne!
Farewell, Coolmore—Bundoran! And your summer crowds that run
From inland homes to see with joy th'Atlantic-setting sun;
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport among the waves;
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt the gloomy caves;
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, the crabs, the fish;
Young men and maids to meet and smile, and form a tender wish;
The sick and old in search of health, for all things have their turn—
And I must quit my native shore, and the winding banks of Erne!
Farewell to every white cascade from the Harbour to Belleek,
And every pool where fins may rest, and ivy-shaded creek;
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where ash and holly grow,
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving flood below;
The Lough, that winds through islands under Turaw mountain green;
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, with tranquil bays between;
And Breesie Hill, and many a pond among the heath and fern,—
For I must say adieu—adieu to the winding banks of Erne!
The thrush will call through Camlin groves the live-long summer day;
The waters run by mossy cliff, and banks with wild flowers gay;
The girls will bring their work and sing beneath a twisted thorn,
Or stray with sweethearts down the path among growing corn;
Along the river-side they go, where I have often been,
O, never shall I see again the days that I have seen!
A thousand chances are to one I never may return,—
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne!
Adieu to evening dances, when merry neighbours meet,
And the fiddle says to boys and girls, “Get up and shake your feet!”
To shanachus and wise old talk of Erin's days gone by—
Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and where the bones may lie
Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with tales of fairy power,
And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the twilight hour.
The mournful song of exile is now for me to learn—
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding banks of Erne!
Now measure from the Commons down to each end of the Purt,
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather— I wish no one any hurt;
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, the Mall, and Portnasun,
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every one.
I hope that man and womankind will do the same by me;
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging the sea.
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and often fondly turn
To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne.
If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please God, to cast
My golden anchor in the place where youthful years were pass'd;
Though heads that now are black and brown must meanwhile gather gray,
New faces rise by every hearth, and old ones drop away—
Yet dearer still that Irish hill than all the world beside;
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, through lands and waters wide.
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will return
To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding banks of Erne.
FIFTY MODERN POEMS, XXVII
Bell & Daldy, London, 1865, pp.111-118
requiem for america
Requiem for America is a photographic tribute to America's Industrial Legacy, A stunning portfolio that offers a visually arresting and emotionally resonant exploration of a pivotal era in American history. Focused on the Rustbelt and Textile regions, this meticulously curated collection provides a heartfelt look into a time marked by towering factories, bustling steel mills, the rhythm of textile production, and the beloved Mom-and-Pop stores that served as the heartbeat of countless communities.
"Requiem for America" dives into the iconic past of Bethlehem Steel and other landmark industries, celebrating their significant impact on the nation's economic and cultural landscape. Through evocative imagery, the book honors the emigrants families—our unsung heroes and heroines—whose resilience and dedication were instrumental in shaping an age of modern America.
Each act of this portfolio captures the grandeur and human stories behind the factories and mills, reflecting the rich and shared heritage of this transformative period. From historic textile mills to where steel is king to enduring mom-and-pop stores, Requiem for America conveys the essence of an era where community and industry were intricately woven together to create a unique and vibrant legacy.
“To work without pleasure or affection, to make a product that is not both useful and beautiful, is to dishonor God, nature, the thing that is made, and whomever it is made for.”
a visual ballad in four acts
Summary of the Acts
This photographic series is designed as a four-act theatrical play, akin to a cinematic experience, unfolding in four distinct acts. Each act is crafted to immerse the audience in a rich narrative that explores deep themes and complex characters. The structure is unique, as the story is presented in a rhythmic ballad form, reminiscent of folklore, music, and poetry, utilizing four-line ABCB stanzas. I’ve coined this innovative approach as a “visualized ballad.” The rhythmic quality of the ballad enhances the emotional depth of the narrative, allowing the audience to feel the cadence of the characters’ journeys. Each stanza serves as a snapshot, capturing pivotal moments and emotions while encouraging a deeper connection to the story. The use of repetition and rhyme not only makes the narrative more memorable but also evokes a sense of nostalgia, tapping into the timeless tradition of storytelling.
ACT I Broken Windows
This storyline centers on the heartbreaking phenomenon of manufacturers abandoning their factories and mills, leaving behind structures that once thrived with life and productivity. As these industrial sites fall into decay, the echoes of machinery and the industrious hum of workers fade into silence. The once-bustling communities that relied on these businesses for their livelihoods face economic decline and social fragmentation, as families struggle to adapt to the loss of jobs and the decline of local infrastructure. Places that once thrived with activity — parks, shops, and gathering places—are now empty or in disrepair. Neighborhoods that were once vibrant and interconnected have become isolated, residents are forced to leave in search of work. Amid this turmoil, the decline of local businesses leads to a loss of identity and erodes the very fabric of community life.
ACT II Gifts from Prince Mammon
The aftermath of industrial decline is palpable in every city across the Rust Belt, where disenfranchised and hopeless citizens navigate the remnants of a once-thriving economy. Abandoned factories loom over neighborhoods like ghosts of prosperity past, serving as stark reminders of the jobs and opportunities that have vanished. The streets are often lined with fallen churches, their steeples bent and roofs caving in, symbolizing the erosion of community faith and cohesion. Local businesses, once cherished Mom-and-Pop shops, now stand empty, their windows shattered or boarded up, each closure telling a story of dreams unfulfilled and families struggling to survive. The homes in these neighborhoods bear the scars of neglect, with peeling paint and overgrown yards reflecting the loss of care and investment. This landscape of decay breeds hopelessness, trapping those left behind in a cycle of poverty and despair.
ACT III Revival
In the aftermath of conflict, communities often find themselves in a state of disarray, grappling with loss, fear, and uncertainty. Yet, amid the war-torn rot of chaos, a remarkable resilience emerges. Well-meaning citizens, motivated by a shared desire for stability, renewal, to redefine their neighborhoods life purpose and create a new order.
ACT IV Alchemy
Throughout its history, alchemy has evolved from a mystical and philosophical pursuit into the more empirical science of chemistry, but its legacy continues to influence modern thought and spirituality.
In this photographic series I explore the dual nature of alchemy—both material and spiritual. On the material side, it examines the transformation of objects through changes in their chemical structure. Only the alchemist who holds the secret formula can turn lead into gold, thus achieving immortality. This notion extends to modern inventors and pioneers in fields like technology and cryogenics On the spiritual side, alchemy symbolizes an inner journey of self-discovery, seeking to reveal the “spark of light” present in all creation. This quest involves the integration of the Anthropos, or the divine essence within us, fostering a profound transformation toward enlightenment and redemption
In this reference. alchemy serves as a compelling metaphor for the human experience, highlighting the connection between external transformation and internal growth. The alchemical journey invites individuals to reflect on their own paths toward enlightenment, deepening their understanding of their relationship with the universe and the divine. This personalized process allows for the emergence of true eternal divinity, empowering individuals to reach their highest potential and attain a form of immortality that transcends the physical realm. It also raises questions about the future of humanity, particularly in relation to transhumanism, where the merging of human consciousness with AI challenges our notions of identity and existence
act i
BROKEN WINDOWS
ACT III
REVIVAL
act ii
GIFTS FROM PRINCE MAMMON
ACT IV
ALCHEMY
ARTIST STATEMENT
As Americans, we share a common spirit, exemplified by the bricklayer, shop steward, blacksmith, farmer, mechanic, and engineer, all of whom sought greater personal autonomy. Their collective efforts transformed barren lands into a global cultural powerhouse. Now, as the once-grand architectural marvels they built slowly decay before our eyes,
Whether I'm photographing a abandoned New England woolen mill or a dilapidated Rust Belt steel plant I see my grandfather, sitting at the dining room table, smoking a Pall Mall and sipping his Ballantine Ale while tallying the weekly tabs for each boot he made. I think of my grandmother’s hardships, who journeyed alone from County Mayo, Ireland to America at twelve years-old to work tirelessly in the woolen mills of Boston, Worcester, and Manchester to earn enough to bring her sisters to America.
I envision determined women bound by the relentless demands of the “punch clock” and the endless rows of workstations, like return processors at LL Bean, clock in at 7:02 or fall short of the quota means losing your job. There has always been, and still is, no rest for the weary. And yet we move on, searching for a better life, and opportunities to become independent, prosperous, and respected, with the God given dignity and freedom we deserve. Each day stands as a testament to our resilience as we face challenges with unwavering spirit. Together, we are rewriting our stories, transforming obstacles into stepping stones toward liberty.