O! well I love the dear old glen,
Its rugged peaks and sloping braes;
Far from the busy haunts of men,
Where oft I’ve gathered nuts and slaes.
Could I but grasp the poet’s pen,
Use it as only poets can,
I’d sing the praise of that old glen,
Dame Nature’s product, wild and grand.
Mem’ry brings back the bright days, when
My heart was young and free from care;
O’ the days I spent in that old glen,
With boon companions joys to share.
The cushat calls far up the trees,
Dear to us as the linnet’s song;
The wind played softly among the leaves,
Of oaks grown stately, firm and strong.
Too quickly passed the golden hours,
As we sped through the tangled copse;
Gathering nuts and sweet wild flowers,
Our lives made bright with sunny hopes.
Ah, those were bright and happy days,
No thought of morrow reached our head;
But friends of boyhood, where are they?
Some o’er the sea, some gone, or dead.
Time brings us changes great and small,
No man can stay its course, ‘tis said?
The stoutest oak one day must fall,
So shall all men in earth be laid.
What wintry storms the glen have swept,
Since first I wandered there, a boy;
Its beauties rare I’ll ne’er forget,
E’en now I feel new thrills of joy.
I hear the brooklet murm’ring low,
A calm, sweet sound of humming bee;
As downward falls the wool-like snow,
And melting hastens to the sea.
Those boyhood scenes are dear to me,
Engraved, as with iron pen,
Upon my heart; O, was I free
To roam a while in Grousey Glen.