WHERE I WAS RARIN' TO
The little stream of Ballacowle.
It tumbles down the Glen
And hides beneath the lady-fern
To sparkle out again—
Then plunges underneath the road
To seek a devious way,
Where lost in quarry refuse now,
Its early cradle lay.
A roomy cradle once it was,
O'er-arched with spreading trees;
A tangled Paradise of flowers,
Scarce touched by passing breeze,
And here, among the primrose tufts,
It wound its cheerful way,
When, long ago, we wove our wreaths
To Welcome in the May.
On May Day Eve I wandered there,
And, by the old plum tree,
I found a bent and aged man
Who gazed along the lea.
His dress was of the loaghtan-brown,
His hair was white as snow;
And quietly he rested there
And watched the streamlet flow.
"Good evening, friend," I gently said,
"Good everin'," said he;
I said "What do you here so late,
Beneath our old plum tree?"
"Good everin'," he said again,
His voice was soft and low,
"I came to put a sight down here,
Where I was rarin' to."
