Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/17

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HE 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."