On this May morning I sit and ponder on days I've seen I'll see no more,
On those pleasent days when I used to wander,
Around the good old homestead around dear old Garrymore.
Though many a city since then I've been in, New York, Chicago and old Omaha,
My heart still pines for the hills of Boston and my bosom swells for sweet Ballinagh.
The village perched on a sloping hillside,
A murmuring stream where the daisies gleam,
A market square where hucksters bartered,
And a rocky fareground where farmers lean.
Three streets that branch from a small triangle
With a church, a schoolhouse and an old oatmill,
A small courthouse where the lawyers wrangle,
And a richmans folly on a neighbouring hill.
As fancy led me o'er rocks and through heather,
I beheld an object long dear to me,
It was the parish chapel where I used to worship,
With Our Lord and Saviour in Potahee.
On the holy altar are pious pastor,
Would offer prayers unto our Lord on High,
While at it's feet by the sallies lonely,
My loving brother in his grave does lie.
Dear rocks long blessed by the smiles of heaven,
Your nice whitewashed chapel and your soft-toned bell,
That used to summon for prayer the living,
And greet the dead with its passing knell.
O would to God I could but hear it tolling,
It would fill my heart with joy and glee,
But the mighty rolling ocean,
It lies between me and Potahee.
Although long absent, I am not despaing,
And if God so wills I'll return to thee,
Though I fix my eyes on the hills of Boston,
I see a churchyard on Potahee.
I will embrace my old friends with rapture,
Then for the dead I will sincerely pray,
And when God calls me from earth to heaven,
On that peaceful hillside let my bones decay.
