by Arthur Stringer

Arthur Stringer

In the dead av the night, acushla,
When the new big house is still,
I think av the childer' thick as hares
In the ould house under the hill!

And I think av the times, alanna,
That we harkened the peewit's cry,
And how we ran to the broken gate
When the piper av Doon went by!

In the dead of the year, acushla,
When me wide new fields are brown,
I think av that wee ould house,
At the edge av the ould gray town!

I think av the rush-lit faces,
Where the room and loaf was small:
Yet the new years seem the lean years,
And the ould years, best av all!

Last updated January 14, 2019