The Ballamoar is a farm of mountain, field and stone,
And there is dwelling happily our widowed aunt alone;
Alone until in summer time her peace is ruined quite
By children four from Douglas who run wild with sheer delight.
The Ballamoar 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 now the master’s in his grave and things are not the same.
The Ballamoar has a yard where docks and nettles grow,
With wormwood, yellow daisies, and red poppies all aglow;
And slates are missing from the barns and doors are off the hinge,
And all along the gutter-spouts green moss has made a fringe.
But pigeons strut and swallows flit and hens scratch on the ground,
And nowhere else upon this earth such rich deep peace is found;
The garden wild is full of flowers, with roses, herbs and weeds,
But sitting here in summer-time is all the body needs.
The white-washed house is long and low, its door is open wide,
The white-stoned slate is welcoming the guest to step inside:
Oh, here I could for ever live and let the world go by,
Just dreaming in the garden ‘neath the ever-changing sky.