MY OWN, MY FOND, ROSTREVOR

Village fair, oh! village sweet,
Round which hills are closing,
With fervour many a time I greet
Thy name before reposing.
Thy scenes I cherish and revere
Though oceans us now sever,
I love thee more each passing year,
My own, my fond, Rostrevor.

    

To green Kilbroney churchyard old,
‘Ere close of day I oft’ repair,
To read the names inscribed in gold,
Upon the tombstones there.
A prayer I breathe for those who Sleep,
Beneath the soil they often trod,
And bid farewell and leave them keep
Their peaceful slumbers with their God.

 
A thousand beauties deck thy plains,
High o’er the road the trees are meeting,
The hawthorne decks, the winding lanes
And the daisies are the sunshine’s greeting.
The cuckoo loud his name is calling,
The lark is singing, soaring higher,
And sweetly on the breezes swelling
The music from the lofty spire.		   Village fair, oh! village sweet,
Thy scenes are dear to me,
Though other climes my eyes rnay meet
I’ll still remember thee.
Joy, peace and sunshine long be thine,
May thy sons in faith ne’er waver,
And virtue guard each humble cot,
Around my own, my fond, Rostrevor.

D.Haughian

 
Nothing that could please the eye,
Is round thee, village, wanting,
With fields of green and clear blue sky,
And hills and vales enchanting.
And to harmonise with Nature’s charms,
The honest swain with true endeavour
Keeps hedgerows neat and tidy farms,
Around my own, my fond, Rostrevor.