Lines to a lovely rit of whin, or gorse, a-bloom on the edge of a moss ramper.

by Moses Teggart, The Birches Armagh Nov. 28, 1908


My blessings on thee, bonnie gorse.
By meddling fingers unmolested!
How often, when we had no horse,
I wheeled the load to thee - and rested.

Here by the ramper's bristling brow,
In the noonday sunshine basking,
Bestowing gladness still art thou,
And bits of gold without asking.

To look at thee a joyance is, 
Firm-rooted where is fading heather;
Wee birds fly o'er thee with a whizz.
And, like thyself, enjoy the weather.

The nannie goat thee meddles not
Serene in thy secure dominion:
The browsing donkey seeks some spot
Where bristles not thy thorny pinion.
Yet, by the roadisde gladly shine
A poet is there, no hard master,
One who adoring blossoms thine,
Would grieve to see thee meet disaster.

Thy yellow blooms - oh, they to me 
Are gold and sunshine blent together;
And in thy sharpest thorn I see
Nor donkey's teeth, nor nan-goat's tether.

Here as the 'whin' thou art, indeed,
A gem among the bogland blossoms,
Yet women they'd term thee a weed,
Though placed thou wert upon their their bosoms.
But bloom thou on, thou bonnie whin,
Thy gold buds this November weather,
Are more to me than - oh, the sin! -
Any slaughtered peafowl's feather.

Sweet! Let me look at thee again,
So taken am I with thy beauty;
An hour beside thee I'd remain,
But, bless me, yon's the call to duty.

Yet oft in memory, dear, shall I
See thee shining where the ramper,
Lone and loveless here doth lie,
A road no heather sods can hamper.

As 'furze' thou'rt also widely known,
And yet whatever name they call thee,
Still may thy glory be thine own,
And never ill mishap befall thee.


The Belle of Clonmakate

The Belle of Derryagh

The Belle of Derrykeevin

A Birches Boy

Bonnie Mary of Drumcree

Coney Island

Dead at The Birches

Down in Maghery


Lillian Martin

The Lily of Lough Neagh

The Turf Bummer

The Turf Cutter

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