Cuttin' Rushes
(I found this poem in an anthology in Great-Auntie Ursula and Great-Auntie Madge's flat in Lancaster, at least fifty years ago, and thought it very touching: young still young, and drenching wet the grass, stayed in my head forever, & then one day just a while ago i thought of searching the byways of the internet and found it again)

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 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' someone at the turn!"
Oh, we're afther cuttin' rushes on the mountain.

Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago
Whiles I waken out o' dreams, an' 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?

"Moira O'Niall" (The Glens Of Antrim song cycle)