An’ find me cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.
Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
Rippin’ round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
’Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
Come, dear, come!—an’ back along the burn
See the darlin’ honeysuckle hangin’ like a crown.
Quick, one kiss,—sure, there’s some one at the turn!
“Oh, we’re afther cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.”
Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago....