On Slaimish

By James Fenton

Here A stan,
On the hoovin hairt o Antrim, luckin bak
A wee at thon far ither hills,
The cloody, dreamy hills o owl Scotia,
Owl foont
O iver-hantin echas, hard yit an clear
In word an sang, in fiel an hoose an pew:
A’ that noo an lang wer ain.

Here A stan,
Bak luckin noo tae nearder hichts,
Tae this waitin lan aroon me,
Whar yince a hirdin weetchil stud, loast
A wee atween dreams, an sa,
Or dreamin sa,
Streetchin braid afore him, anither ree,
Anither flock, braid-gethered, thranger far;
Whar nicht-wantherin Orr dreamed yit, for a’
The bitter wakkenin o ninety-echt:
This lan that cried the dreamers bak, for
This is hame.


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