I IO [Proc. B.N.F.C., 



cuil a corner (as in Coleraine) ; Galgie is same as Calgie, the 

 genitive of Calgach, a well known ancient Irish personal name. 

 All this is plain sailing, but now comes the guess : What is re ? 

 I think it likely to be the corrupt anglicised form of rath, a 

 fort — Bally-re-coole-Galgie, the town of the fort of Calgach's 

 corner." 



In conclusion, I need only add that I have but touched on the 

 fringe of the subject. The field is a wide one, and nothing could 

 afford a student of local history more pleasure than the elucida- 

 tion of the ancient names of our district. 



M. Griffin, Member, followed with an interesting Irish tale. 



Miss Alice L. Milligan then read a ballad adapted from the 

 Irish by herself, and entitled " A Lament for O'Cathan," of 

 which the following is a part. 



THE LAMENT OF FEARGAL OG. 



I am Feargal Og, the poet's son, and I tune my harp to tell 

 Of the fatal fight by Patrick's Dun where the King of Ireland fell ; 

 The last of the lords of the race of Niel, and battling for his right, 

 The noblest chiefs of the Northern land by the Saxon sworder's might, 

 And friends in crowds and a brother dear are dead with the royal one, 

 But my dirge is not for the fallen king nor yet for my father's son, 

 A dearer than any brother born with Brian O'Neill was slain, 

 And my harp wails slow to a song of woe for Amaric O'Cahan. 



For love, 

 Of my lord and friend O'Cahan. 



Gone are the days of our joyous plays, when in childhood's warlike sport 



We hailed him chief and enthroned him high on the seat at a mimic fort ; 



And gone are the years, when my clamouring tears, could call him to my side, 



To raise me up on his shoulders strong, where dearly I loved to ride ; 



And I was a king on a hunter bold and he was my charger tall, 



To leap and prance at the clarion note or my ringing battle call ; 



But no king of old ever grasped the gold of a brighter glittering rein, 



Than the child who held by the glorious locks of thy boyish curls, O'Cahan. 



Dear curls ! 

 Are they dimmed by the slaughter stain. 



