Page:Poems by Cushag.djvu/18

Rh 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."