The Ballamooar

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