Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A TALE OF THE BOGLAND, by PATRICK MACGILL



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A TALE OF THE BOGLAND, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tis myself that hates the city, and the hurry, and / the din
Last Line: For he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart.
Subject(s): Absence; Death; Flowers; Hearts; Heaven; Love - Loss Of; Separation; Isolation; Dead, The; Paradise


'T IS meself that hates the city, an' the hurry, an' the din —
An' I wish that I was out of it, its worry an' its sin,
For me mind is on the bogland, when the day is drear an' dim;
I could be happy all me life, if I was back with him.
But the wurl is up agin' me, an' so bitter is me heart,
For he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart.

'T is meself that loved the bogland stretchin' out agin' the sky,
With the summer flowers a-blowin' an' the peat-stacks gettin' dry;
There was dew upon the heather at the dawnin' o' the day,
An' the rushes in the marshes ever sung their sleepy lay,
An' he told me in the gloamin' that I won his manly heart,
But he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart.

'T is meself that loved to linger when the big red sun went down,
An' the purple heavens rested on the bogland lone an' brown;
I told him when I met him that I loved the evenin' air,
Tho' glorious the evenin' well I knew he would be there,
An' he loved me with devotion, an' he pressed me to his heart,
But he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart.

'T is meself regrets the hour that I met the stranger there,
But he had got a manner fine an' such a pleasant air;
He told me of the wonder sights an' glories of the town
Until me eyes grew weary of the bogland's waste of brown,
But though the strangers' halls are fine, mine is a broken heart,
For he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart.





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