by Arthur Stringer
I'll niver go home again,
Home to the ould sad hills,
Home through the ould soft rain,
Where the curlew calls and thrills!
For I thought to find the ould wee house,
Wid the moss along the wall!
And I thought to hear the crackle-grouse,
And the brae-birds call!
And I sez, I'll find the glad wee burn,
And the bracken in the glen,
And the fairy-thorn beyont the turn,
And the same ould men!
But the ways I'd loved and walked, avick,
Were no more home to me,
Wid their sthreets and turns av starin' brick,
And no ould face to see!
And the ould glad ways I'd helt in mind,
Loike the home av Moira Bawn,
And the ould green turns I'd dreamt to find,
They all were lost and gone!
And the white shebeen beside the leap
Where the racin' wathers swirled
And the burnin' kelp-shmoke used to creep —
'Tis now another world!
And all thrampled out long years ago
By feet I've niver seen
Are the fairy-rings that used to show
Along the low boreen!
And the bairns that romped by Tullagh Burn
Whin they saw me sthopped their play —
Through a mist av tears I tried to turn
And ghost-like creep away!
And I'll niver go home again!
Home to the ould lost years,
Home where the soft warm rain
Drifts loike the drip av tears!
Last updated September 07, 2017