Ballads of the Ballamoors
LONELY now to me are the lanes of memory,
Dull the days I wander on the barren upland leas.
The summers that are gone
Mock the thoughts that linger on
Of children that were merry at Ballagrainey in the trees.
Colby Glen is dark and deep, the fields are full of sheep;
Beautiful is South Barrule, its purple promont’ries;
The me more pleasing far
The tiny dingles are,
And the rivulet that chatters at Ballagrainey in the trees.
Pleasant there is spring when the thrushes build and sing
And over every grassy hedge are primrose colonies;
When the cuckoo’s notes are heard,
And there’s tasks for every bird,
And nature still is living at Ballagrainey in the trees.
Glad was summertime when the clover and the thyme
Breathed a breath of Eden that to weariness brought ease,
When a haunting dreamy haze
Lit the gold of other days,
And we wandered in the fields at Ballagrainey in the trees.
Sweet was Autumn there in the mellow golden air
When the wheat was bleaching white and we gathered blackberries;
When the reapers clattered round
With their cheerful chirping sound,
And there were harvest suppers at Ballagrainey in the trees.
When the greyfaced winter came and the built the hearthside flame
With gorse bonds gathered daily ere the twigs began to freeze;
We sat beside the fire
And we sang, a youthful choir,
The old Christmas carols in Ballagrainey in the trees.
Dear to me are the dreams that we wove beside the streams;
Precious all the sturdy folk that now are memories;
In many a grassy plot
Their names are not forgot,
The kindly gentle folk at Ballagrainey in the trees.