Quotes about bracken, page 7
The Cottage
Here in turn succeed and rule
Carter, smith, and village fool,
Then again the place is known
As tavern, shop, and Sunday-school;
Now somehow it’s come to me
To light the fire and hold the key,
Here in Heaven to reign alone.
All the walls are white with lime,
Big blue periwinkles climb
And kiss the crumbling window-sill;
Snug inside I sit and rhyme,
Planning, poem, book, or fable,
At my darling beech-wood table
Fresh with bluebells from the hill.
Through the window I can see
Rooks above the cherry-tree,
Sparrows in the violet bed,
Bramble-bush and bumble-bee,
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poem by Robert Graves
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Twilight Entwined
Day and night highlights a symmetrical white and black,
while wandering down a dew wet and moss laden track,
a mud marked path freckled with toadstools and mushrooms,
all seemingly encased within misty night time glooms,
but in such bracken-stirred woodlands, nightlife prevails,
with glowing fireflies revealing sloping slugs slimy trails.
Damp dew-licked leaves reflect their own incandescent hue,
from the star’s creamy white to the river’s rainbow blue,
for sapphire moonbeams illuminate bubbling brooks,
while chiming, chirping crickets sing in rocky nooks,
boisterous night flying brown bats chant their ultrasonics,
while yellow speckled bugs murmur blissful oblivionics.
From breeze dancing buttercups scenting sweet maybes,
bare-backed beetles dawdling dandily in bosoms of daisies,
through to the distant humming of a darting dragonfly,
and the percussion of a moon seeking moth fluttering by,
they will majestically capture you, magically in the night,
spellbinding you with seductive sorcery, stunning your sight,
because of all the romantic wonders that mankind can find,
there are none greater than the eurhythmy of twilight entwined.
poem by Dale Mullock
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Armorel
WHEN within the rippling tide
Shakes the silver-pointed moon,
When the rainbow flies of noon
All have died,
When the bats go wheeling far,
And the mournful owl has cried
Twice or thrice a-down the glen
Gray with gathering shade, and when
Gates o' dream are held ajar,–
From the alders in the dell,
From the bracken fronds astir,
Elfin voices call to her,–
'Armorel !'
She shall glide the garden down,
Treading softly, treading slow,
And with silent feet shall go
Past the Mary-lilies white,
Past the pansies, gold and brown,
Grown for her delight.
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poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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An April Day Near Mushera
Old March is still in April and the wind blows a cool chill
Across the windswept bracken of ancient Mushera hill
And the fields by Aubane river wet where the floods have been
But this countryside looks beautiful in all it's shades of green.
The swallows are returning in their hundreds every day
From warm climes of north Africa the deserts far away
And cattle out on pasture fields and though weather glass is low
The Spring has spread her greenery and lush the grasses grow
The weather will grow milder as days of bloom draw near
And the farmer prays that the Summer will be better than last year
His cattle wintered poorly on weather damaged silage and hay
And he tell all who listen that farming doesn't pay.
The birds busy nest building on bush and hedge and tree
And the blackbird whistles proudly proclaiming his territory
I still recall the innocence of a school going country boy
When I thought that every songbird only sung for love and joy.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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God Defend New Zealand
God of Nations at Thy feet,
In the bonds of love we meet,
Hear our voices, we entreat,
God defend our free land.
Guard Pacific's triple star
From the shafts of strife and war,
Make her praises heard afar,
God defend New Zealand.
Men of every creed and race,
Gather here before Thy face,
Asking Thee to bless this place,
God defend our free land.
From dissension, envy, hate,
And corruption guard our State,
Make our country good and great,
God defend New Zealand.
Peace, not war, shall be our boast,
But, should foes assail our coast,
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poem by Thomas Bracken
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Jasper’s Song
WHO goes down through the slim green sallows,
Soon, so soon ?
Dawn is hard on the heels of the moon,
But never a lily the day-star knows
Is white, so white as the one who goes
Armed and shod, when the hyacinths darken.
Then hark, O harken !
And rouse the moths from the deep rose-mallows,
Call the wild hares down from the fallows,
Gather the silk of the young sea-poppies,
The bloom of the thistle, the bells of the foam;
Bind them all with a brown owl's feather,
Snare the winds in a golden tether,
Chase the clouds from the gipsy's weather, and follow, O follow, the white spring home.
Who goes past with the wind that chilled us,
Late, so late ?
Fortune leans on the farmer's gate,
Watching the round sun low in the south,
With a plume in his cap and a rose at his mouth.
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poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Donal Hickey
We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.
He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.
I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.
One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Singing Children
IN the streets of Bethlehem sang the children
So merry and so shrill,
'He shall have sweet cedars in his garden
And a house on Hermon Hill.
He shall have the king's daughter for his fellow,
A king's crown to bind upon his head.'
And with bracken buds and straw, brown and yellow,
Mary made His bed.
In the streets of Nazareth sang the children
So clearly and so sweet,
'He shall lead us to the spoiling of the nations,
He shall bruise them with his feet.
His standards shall outface the stars for number,
Red as field-lilies when the rains are done.'
And Mary heard them singing in her slumber.
And woke to kiss her Son.
In the streets of Jerusalem the children
Sang, passing to their play,
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poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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A Morning Walk
From Frankston into Cranbourne
The road runs all along
Between green-golden stretches,
A lovely way of song,
With thrushes singing loud and gay
And blackbirds clear and strong.
From Frankston into Cranbourne
We went, and cared for none.
The pines along the wayside
Showed yellow shoots, each one;
And the bare old orchard trees were gray
As cobwebs in the sun.
Where the bracken's frosted silver
Rimmed spikes of pearly heath
We saw the cream clematis
Weave lacy wreath on wreath
Above the jade-green fuchsia bells
And greenhoods underneath.
The purple sarsparilla
Spread out a cloak of pride,
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poem by Myra Morris
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A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow
A warm August day in old Duhallow far north of here and miles away
And swallows high o'er sunlit meadows scenting sweetly of mown hay
And songbirds silent on the hedgerows in Summer you seldom hear them sing
they always pipe their finest in the prime months of the Spring.
A warm day in August in the fields of Knocknagree
And old gray faced rook is cawing on high branch of elm tree
And the magpie he is chattering as into the grove he fly
From once seen and heard he's one that's not hard to identify.
A warm day by Clara mountain by the old Town of Millstreet
And the skylark is not singing o'er the bracken in the heat
In the warm days of late Summer he doesn't feel the urge to fly
High above the sunlit mountain for to carol in the sky.
A warm day in August and the drains of water dry
And the old man says often in August I've seen water flowing bank high
And the long range weather forecast is the weather will be fine
And that at least another fortnight of warm days and sunshine.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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