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