Lisbanemore was a cashel [rock fort] in Killeen on the eastern extremity of the Ring of Gullion.

The following rambling account was recited – some generations ago – to a passing tourist!

Is it Lisbanemore ye’ve come till see? 

Well, it’s welcome ye are as the flowers of May. 

It’s not the place it used till be but if you’re thinking of buildin’ a castle in it, it’s glad I’ll be to have ye as neighbours. 

That is, if the wee people will leave ye alone.  An’ mebbe they will an’ mebbe they won’t. 

I’ll not be vouching for them. 

Min’ ye, they wur here alright in the oul’ days.  Sure I mind well hearin’ of a man that come home drunk one night an’ the wee people put a turnpike on him in this very spot.

 ‘Where are ye goin’?’ they said.

‘Till Peter Cashaday’s,’ says he. 

‘If ye’re goin’ till Peter’s,’ says they, ‘ye can go, but don’t ye be comin’ home drunk no more.’ 

An’ that happened till him as sure as I tell ye, for he toul’ it he’s self.  An’ shure he hadn’t the wit to be tellin’ lies an’ him as drunk as a lord!

Shure blessed St Bline chose Lisbanemore herself over all, for her convent, but the saint set a bell ringin’ in oul’ Killeavy beyant an’ there she an’ her company had till fut it as fast as they cud, for mind ye, Patrick wus hard till put up with at times.  An’ go she had till.  An’ she breakin’ her heart for the beautiful forth she had till leave!

Indeed it’s Killeen is the purty townlan’.   But it’s the hard, hard groun’ till labour.  Mornin’ an’ evenin’, sunshine an’ shower, yer at it, workin’ the life out of yourself till keep the life in. 

An’ niver a rest till ye get the last, long sleep.  An’ that comes to all of us sooner or later.   But shure, if yer ready, ye needn’t mind, for God is good. 

But hard labour an’ all, I’ll be jist as sorry to leave oul’ Killeen as wus St Bline herself, an’ that’s as true as yer stannin’ there!

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