Where I was rarin' to

The little stream of Ballacowle.It tumbles down the GlenAnd hides beneath the lady-fernTo sparkle out again—Then plunges underneath the roadTo 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 wreathsTo Welcome in the May.

On May Day Eve I wandered there,And, by the old plum tree,I found a bent and aged manWho gazed along the lea.His dress was of the loaghtan-brown,His hair was white as snow;And quietly he rested thereAnd 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 handUpon the cold grey wallThat once was gable of the house,The house of Ballacowle—Though little now remains to showWhere once it stood so fair,And, but the plum tree lives to markThe garden that was there.

"I mind the day we rode to church,The hay was nearly teddin',The apple trees were dressed in pinkAs 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 wellThat lived at the Claghbeddin:He lent the horse and pillion lineTo 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 voiceLike music in a dream.No longer could I see his face,But still he murmered low:"I came to put a sight once moreWhere I was rarin' to."