THE “BOHAREEN "

In the kingdom they call “Kerry” there‘ s a “bohareen” goes climbin’

Above the thatch o’ cots at Ballymore —

A little rovin’ footway — an’ the goat bells keep a-chimin’

In the heather slopin’ upward from the shore

For the slopes are clad with heather, noddin’ heather, purple heather,

Where the bees make honey-music in the noon;

An’ if you should chance to stray there in a scrap o’ sunny weather

A warbler will be tossin’ you a tune.

An’ you can look to seaward through the gray-green gulf o’ wonder

An’ watch the slantin’ sails a-dippin’ far,

An’ you can mark about you how the rocks are rent asunder,

An’ the heights are mountin’ up to reach the star.

But it‘ s not the sea below it, nor the craggy crests above it,

Nor the bracken with the mosses soft between,

Nor the droopin’ bells o’ heather, nay, it‘ s not for these I love it,

That wanderin’, that windin’ “bohareen!”

But a thought that keeps a-chimin’ in my heart like tender rhymin’

Of one who clambered upward from the shore —

Whose feet with mine kept timin’ as the pair o’ us went climbin’

Long ago that “bohareen” at Ballymore!