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."
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."