Its Rabbie Burns' 250th birthday today, and his life and works are rightly all over the media. If you fancy a distraction from this for a while, this poem is by the Rev W F Marshall, the "Bard of Tyrone", who is regarded by country people in Northern Ireland in the same way as Burns is here. This poem will have been written in the early part of the 20th century. W F Marshall at one time lived about a mile down the road from our house at home. There is another poem from last week a bit further down the blog.
MY HOUSE
I’d like a house that was my own
Beside a river in Tyrone;
The river at my garden wall,
- When I’ve said that I’ve said it all.
I’ve said it all and it’s a dream
That has no substance, hope or gleam,
Yet, now I’m old and on the shelf,
I think about it to myself.
A little house, not hard to run,
With one big room to hold the sun;
A good turf fire to keep it warm,
Pictures and books to give it charm,
And easy chairs where old friends may
Stretch out their legs and want to stay.
And want to stay- so there would be
A few spare bedrooms, two or three,
Electric current- lots of plugs,
And water piped- no bedroom jugs!
All this within but for a treat,
Outside I’d like a summer seat;
A sheltered place where I can go
No matter how the wind might blow.
I’d like a garden full of bloom,
But here and there it must have room
For strawberries and apple trees
And useful things like spuds and peas.
I’d like a view, although I fear
It’s hard to be provided here.
I’d like a mountain, lifted high,
And heather clad to please my eye.
That mountain, friend, without a doubt,
I simply will not do without.
And then just to complete my dream,
I’d like two fields along the stream;
A field above, and one below,
With open banks where one could throw
A cast of flies, if not with ease,
At least with skill below the trees.
For (mark me!) trees I must provide,
But they’ll be on the farther side.
Above my house I’d like to see
The water flowing fast and free,
But not too deep for one to wade
Below a stretch the bushes shade,
And there entice a fish to rise
And take it’s pick of three wet flies.
The field below my house would show
A long deep pool with silent flow,
Just flow enough- no more!- to bring
The well cocked fly within the ring.
And then, along my garden wall
I’d like this even best of all:
From bank to bank in hasty travel,
- White water making music sweet,
- White water rippling past my seat,
- White water singing with the lark,
- White water chuckling in the dark,
I want to hear it in my bed,
I want to hear it when I’m dead.
So, in the season to and fro,
Along my fields will anglers go,
For every man who fishes fair
My brother is and welcome there.
I’ll see them pass with eager feet,
And greet them gaily from my seat.
Sure well I known it’s all a dream
That has no substance, hope or gleam.
And, yet although I’m on the shelf,
When I get talking to myself,
I’m in a kingdom of my own
Across the hills in dark Tyrone,
And there I wave my stick with glee
And swear that house belongs to me.
