The last low hillock of the land is here;
The last lone rampart of the pasturage;
The farthest flung of all the island’s farms.
Beyond this point there stretch the acres drear,
Licked by the ever-hungry seas that wage
Unending warfare in the storms and calms.
The heather’s purple mantle clothes the Ayre
And shingle lies beneath ; within its cage
The lighthouse lamp waits to send out its arms
Through night’s grim darkness to ships far and near.
Thatched cottages with white-washed walls still stand
To speak of other days ; but they will rot
And crumble with the years, and be forgot,
As crumble in the waves the cliffs of sand !
Mona’s Herald 14.2.61