  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. 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! 1 “Bohareen,” bypath. |
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