The Ballamooar is a farm of mountain, field and stone,
And there was dwelling happily our widowed aunt, alone;
Alone until in summer time her peace was ruined quite
By children four from Douglas, who ran wild with sheer delight.
The Ballamooar was a farm of cattle, pigs and sheep,
With horses, hens and heavy crops, and there they used to keep
A trap or two, stiff-carts and floats, with paintwork all agleam;
But when the master filled his grave then things were not the same.
The Ballamooar had a yard where docks and nettles grew;
With wormwood, yellow daisies, poppies red and monkshood blue;
The slates were missing from the barns and doors were off the hinge,
And all along the gutter-spouts green moss had made a fringe.
But pigeons cooed and swallows dipped, and hens scratched on the ground,
And nowhere else upon this earth such rich deep peace was found;
The garden wild was full of flowers, with roses, herbs, and weeds;
But wandering here in summer-time filled all my earthly needs.
The white-washed house was long and low, the door was open wide;
The white-stoned slate was welcoming the guest to step inside;
And here I could for ever live and let the world go by,
Just dreaming in the garden ‘neath the ever-changing sky.
Mona’s Herald 8.1.63