]> The Cry of the Curlews An electronic edition Patrick Augustine Sheehan Electronic edition compiled by Benjamin Hazard School of History, University College, Cork First draft 845 CELT: Corpus of Electronic Texts: a project of University College, Cork
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 Manuscript In private possession, Noel Scannell. Canon Sheehan on the Internet http://www.canonsheehanremembered.com. Edition Canon P.A. Sheehan, 'The Cry of the Curlews,' The Irish Monthly, 29 (June 1901) 287–288. Canon P.A. Sheehan, Literary life. Essays and Poems (Dublin 1921), [Poems] 48–49. Literature Herman Joseph Heuser, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: the story of an Irish parish priest as told chiefly by himself in books, personal memoirs, and letters (New York 1917). Arthur Coussens. P. A. Sheehan, zijn leven en zijn werken (Brugge/Bruges 1923). Michael P. Linehan, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile: Priest, Novelist, Man of Letters (Dublin 1952). James O'Brien (ed.), The Collected Letters of Canon Sheehan of Doneraile, 1883–1913 (Wells 2013). James O'Brien, Canon Sheehan of Doneraile 1852–1913: Outlines for a Literary Biography (Wells 2013). [Bibliographical references 205-11.] The edition used in the digital edition The Cry of the Curlews The Irish Monthly: A Magazine of General Literature Matthew Russell SJ Dublin Irish Jesuit Province June 1901 287–288

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 By Patrick Augustine Sheehan (1852–1913) 1901 The text is in English. poetry 20c nature 2013-05-30 Beatrix Färber ed. File checked and validated; SGML and HTML versions created. 2013-05-29 Benjamin Hazard ed. Header created; structural mark-up added. 2013-05-13 Benjamin Hazard ed. Bibliographical details compiled. 2013-05-13 Benjamin Hazard data capture Text of captured. The Cry of the Curlews A lonely whitewashed cottage Under a sandy cliff; I, a child, and my cradle The thwarts of the fisher's skiff. Dark was the night without, The winds swept over the lea The cry of the curlews calling, And the weary wash of the sea. Sea-swallows nested above us Silent; but all night long Sleepless the cold waves gathered. Pouring to night their song. They sang alone in the darkness, Like hooded monks in choir, And the long, lone beach was lighted With flames of the white sea-fire. I heard the fret of the shingle Teased by the wanton wave, And the deep, low boom of the thunder In the dripping ocean-cave. But I heeded not fret nor thunder, Nor the crack of the wild wind's whips, For the mother's face bent o'er me, And the warmth of a sister's lips. Years have sped since my childhood, And all the visions of yore Passed like the spirits of dreamland Haunting a ghostly shore. Yet in the night or twilight Cometh a sound to me The cry of the curlews calling, And the weary wash of the sea. Yestreen I watched in my manhood There where the cottage stood, Under the nests of the swallows Beside the ocean flood. Gone is the whitewashed cabin, And the fisher's humble skiff, And a low mound, weedy and grass-grown, Is all of the stately cliff. And there in the twilight of fancy Did I trace my love's eclipse, The vision that bent above me, The thrill of a sister's lips. God! Thou art just, and somewhere In Thy myriad mansions blest, Mother and sister are watching The face they once caressed. For death is only a shadow Cast by Thy holy love, As the nest of her young is darkened By the wings of the hov'ring dove. Swifter and swifter downwards Thy Spirit swoops to us, Couched in the warmth of His shadow, Winged multitudinous. Yestreen I watched in my manhood, To-day my hair is white; I hear the eternal surges Beat in the nearing night. But even in Heaven I'll summon From the cells of memory The cry of the curlews calling, And the weary wash of the sea. P. A. SHEEHAN.