Explore "Songs of The Glens of Antrim" by Moira O´Neill on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Oh maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago! / Meself was risin' early on a day for cuttin' rushes. / Walkin' up the Brabla' burn, still the sun was low. / Now I'd hear the burn run an' then I'd hear the thrushes.
"Young, still young!" -- an' drenchin' wet the grass, / Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin' sweetly down; / "Here, lad, here!" will ye follow where I pass, / An' find me cuttin' rushes on the mountain.