An Irish Hill (1900)
There's never a king that rules or reignsBy ever a shore or sea,
No lord of fertile and fair domains
Would have envious thought from me,
Could I only rest 'mid the heather gay,
When the blackbird's notes are shrill,
For the whole sweet length of a summer day
On the side of an Irish hill. Oh, the winds are fresh that across it blow,
And the sky is soft o'erhead,
And the woods and the plains that lie below
Are with emerald verdure spread !
And the larks that high in the blue air soar
They sing with right good-will,
As well they may when they warble o'er
A heath-clad Irish hill. And the hawthorn blooms they fall in showers
At the merry thrush's song,
And above the gorse and the heather flowers
The bees hum all day long ;
The rills with a joyous murmur flow,
And glad is the toiler's lay ;
For the Irish heart forgets its woe
On an Irish summer day. The cuckoo calls and the corncrake roams
Through the clover blossoms pied,
And afar and near are the humble homes
Where virtue and love abide.
Oh, I'd freely barter a year of time,
Let it bring me good or ill,
For one day in the summer's early prime
On the side of an Irish hill! E. Beck, in "Ave Maria." Notes From the Adelaide newspaper the Southern Cross 25 May 1900 p. 6.
Top