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Show THE HILL O' DREAMS. By Helen Lanyon. r My griof! for the days by an' done, When I was a young girl, straight an' tall, Coming alone at set o' sun Up the high hill road from Cushendall. I thought the miles no hardship then, Nor the long road weary to my feet For the thrushes sang in the deep green glen, An the evenin' air was cool an' sweet. My head with many a thought was throng An many a dream as I never told; My heart would lift at a wee bird's song, Or at seein' a whin-bush crowned with gold. An' always I'd look back at the say 'Or the turn of the road shut out the sight Of the. long waves curlin' into the bay, An' breakin' in foam where the sand is white. I was married young on a dacent man, As many would call a prudent choice, But he never could hear how the river ran Singin' a song in a changin' voice. Nor thought to see on the bay's blue wather A ship with yellow sails unfurled, Bearin' away a king's- young daughter Over the brim of the heavin' world. The hills seems weary now to my feet, The miles he's many and dreams he's few. The evenin' air's not near so sweet The birds don't sing as they used to do. And I'm that tired at the top of the hill That I haven't the heart to turn at all, To watch the curlin' breakers fill Tho wee round bay at Cushendall. The New Ireland Review. |