Lower Ballagreiney AerystainThe lonely lime-washed farmsteads are a string

Of pearls that lie encircling the green throat

Of one of Mona’s lesser southern hills ;

Between them runs a thread of gorse and ling

Which riot in this neighbourhood remote,

Crowning the hedges, embow’ring the rills ;

Fuchsia its crimson bounty here doth fling,

Vibrant with bees, melodious with their note ;

Geraniums with scarlet decked the sills.

There was a time when children here did sing

With carefree rapture in the fragrant hay,

And dove-grey smoke rose to a summer sky,

Now hearths are cold and homes in ruins lie.

Those happy children now are far away.