Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/18

He laid a bleached and withered hand
Upon the cold grey wall
That once was gable of the house,
The house of Ballacowle—
Though little now remains to show
Where once it stood so fair,
And, but the plum tree lives to mark
The garden that was there.

"I mind the day we rode to church,
The hay was nearly teddin',
The apple trees were dressed in pink
As we came through Claghbeddin:
We rode along the Cuckoo Field,
The skies were blue and fair,
And through the Croshag's miry lane,
To Kirk Christ of Lezayre.

I mind th' oul' ancient Masthar well
That lived at the Claghbeddin:
He lent the horse and pillion line
To take us to our weddin'.
I mind the dogs and childher too,
That scampered to and fro,
And pussy cats wisout no tails,
Where I was rarin' to."

The sunset faded into gray;
I heard the little stream,
It seemed to mingle with his voice
Like music in a dream.
No longer could I see his face,
But still he murmered low:
"I came to put a sight once more
Where I was rarin' to."