Memories

I sigh when I think of the long long ago,
When my limbs they were strong, though now they are weak,
When I climbed the wild mountains and tripped o’er the heather,
To toil in the bogs at the winning of turf.

Then cattle grazed round me on the sedges and heather,
Each owner nearby kept an eye on his own,
But the owners and cattle have vanished for ever,
And I sigh as I tramp the wild mountains alone.

Around by Lough Patrick it’s lonely but peaceful,
There’s none to disturb now the wild fowl that’s there,
There is none to go rambling with dog and with gun,
In search of a shot at the grouse or the hare.

The horsedrawn carts used to creak o’er the bogroads,
With their bodies all blue and their cribs painted red,
And a wee bag of hay on the top of the peats,
Now I don’t see a horse with a man at his head.

I lean on my stick and it’s often I’m resting,
Unlike the bold heroes of long long ago,
It’s few that remain to talk over old times,
For the Churchyard holds many that are now lying low.

So where is the good of the fight and the struggle,
It all ends the same as the years hurry by,
Hope as we may, the end is approaching,
It’s racing along to meet you and I.

The young disregard it and think but of pleasure.
And look upon old folk as silly old men,
But when we are gone they’ll have something to think of,
When they’ll find they’re the next crop, with time ageing them.

(19th July, 1958)