"Cuttin' rushes"
di Moira O'Neill (fl. 1900) [pseudonym]

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."
Then it was only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
Rippin' round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made her hand sore, she had to leave it go,
'Twas me that cut the rushes then for her to bind together.
Come, dear, come! an' back along the burn
See the darlin' honeysuckle hangin' like a crown.
Quick, one kiss, - "sure, there' someone at the turn!"
Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain.
Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago
I waken out o' dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that's the Brabla' burn, I can hear it sing an' flow,
For all that's fair, I'd sonner see a bunch o' green rushes.
Run, run, run! can ye mind when we were young?
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an' brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The days we cut the rushes on the mountain?