LONGING.
Oh! the woods of Ballaglass, and the Corna stream,
I was there again just now in the sunset gleam,
Oh! The rolling banks of shingle and the rock-hound shore,
And the music of the waves' long roar.
Oh! the blaze of gorse and heather in the deep'ning glow,
With their gold and purple mirrored in the pool below.
And the shadows stealing upwards to the drawing night,
And the ling'ring of the last low light.
All above the marshy meadows hung the dark pine trees
Scarcely whispering their secrets to the lifting breeze.
I could hear the cattle breathing by the low stone wall:–
And Barrule to watch and ward o'er all.
Oh! the little lonely house on the Mooragh turf;
With the sound of running water slipping down among the surf,
I went in upon the door—but the hearth was bare,
And the darkness of the night was there.
Then I wakened from my dream as the sun wenl down.
And I'll wander never more on the Mooragh brown.
For I'm far from Corna valley and the rock-bound shore.
And I'll see the little house no more.
