While from many a leafy nook,
Grave as parson at his book,
Rook replieth unto rook.
XI.
I can hear the river’s flow
As it murmurs, soft and low,
Bringing news from Pettigo.
XII.
I can watch it to the mill,
Where the never-tiring wheel
Dances round and drinks its fill.
XIII.
Past the ever-bubbling “spa,”
Past the castle of Magra,
Razed by Cromwell’s cruel law,
XIV.
On it goes with many a turn,
Playing with its fringe of fern,
Till it touches broad Lough Erne.