Poems of Donegal My Old Thatched Cottage Take me back to my old thatched cottage In far off Donegal Where the thrushes sing in the evening Beside the waterfall I'm tired of the noise of the city I long for the peace of the plow Where the sea gulls circle above me As I wipe the sweat from my brow I long for the sounds of the horses The cows coming down from the hills The bleat of the lambs in the springtime The song of the lark, how it thrills I want to go back to the heather The roses that cling round the door To the hawthorn, the primrose, and daisies To my childhood again as of yore Take me back to my dear old mother In far off Donegal Where the thrushes sing in the evening Beside the waterfall

Drumlongfield Poem Drumlongfield, fairest of Drumholm's fair hills, serenely looking down on verdant vales where ivy mantled walls and gables grey have stood the test of time, and winter's gales. St. Ernan prayed around that hallowed spot where bones of countless dead lie mouldering still. Deserted now, it seems, and weed growth too. When viewed form this grand height - the Surgeon's Hill, three little loughs lie glistening in the sun. Our gaze is now turned south, entranced the more. The white road winding by up to Drumholm brae to pleasant homes where hedges shade each door. The Bay lies there beyond from Coolmore's rocks to wooden banks afar at Ballyweel. Belles Isle from oe'r the warren in foliage deep. St Ernan's groves, inviting too, we feel. And, land locked, as the eye keeps roving round, the flowing tide creeps up to the Mullinasole. The Murvagh woods and mansion rise between and by the Carrick hills the wavelets roll. Blue mountains frown behind - there's Barnes Gap in story famed for highwaymen of yore. Finmore, the Ocht, and purple Minchifin, like sentinels guard the rolling plains much. St. Brigid's grey against Lismonton's hills looks down the valley where a streamlet flows. At Ballintra, the square churchtower and tree-topped Largy in the background shows White houses - aye, and ones of sombre hue, lit up by sunshine from the azure west. A sunken spot along the river holm, the village struggles hard to look its best. O'er Ballinacarrick's brown rocks Breecy peeops in lordly bulk, a landmark far and near. Tis but a hop it seems to Lurgan cavin. Here mirrored in the reed fringed lough so clear. And Glasbolie's green fields so fresh besides. The ancient "forth" just seen round Dromore hill, where fourteen centuries are like a dream. Since Ireland's kings ruled here with pride and skill. Such is the scene that spreads before the eye. We fain would linger here the livelong day, caressed by Summer breezes as they waft up whin-strewn slopes, the scent of well-saved hay.

McTavish (David Budd's Border Collie Pup) *

Large puppy paw's playful padding
Into curiosity's many corners,
Sudden drowsiness overcomes,
Puppy strength gives way,
Paws slowly slide on smooth floor,
Curiosity fades,
Paws lie on their sides,
Twitch once in chase,
Soft whimper, loud in his ear,
From milky whiskered mouth,
Taut tummy, round with warm milk,
Lies, a brown-freckled pink,
On cool floor,
And sleep is all.

Just the Dogs and Me *

Once I heard flutter wood-cock wings
And tasted frost in fall-hung air
Listened to solid pony steps
And smelled the turf from cottage fire.

Once smelled hay in fresh cut swathes
Saw sweat run from untrimmed mane
And reveled in the dust gold haze
That fell from day's last burst of flame

Once new the splendor atop the hill
Of sea and strand and cloud and dune
And with the dogs upon the knob
played the game of "find me" there
Among the grass and whins and thorn
Where rabbit runs and sea wind raves

Alone at night I saw the stars
Hung each like bits of glacier ice
And not a soul was there to see
That I was there, just the dogs and me

Once I knew those musty smells
That new rain brings and then dispells
And once I knew the lowing moan
Of black cows calling in their own
Once knew the sound of rasping wheel
Of horse and cart down stony road

Once I knew all these things
And thought to lose them as time went by
But love has kept them safe within
The constant frame of the mind's faithful eye.

End of the Day *

All day the soft rains fall
Soaking the crumbling furrows
Where days before horse and plow
Toiled slowly through.

Darker and darker soaks the rain.
Greener and greener color the fields,
while grey skies move on and
the sun waits for its exit at dusk.

That moment comes and light fuses through the
billowing clouds. Liquid gold in the fields,
in the trees, in the air, bringing warmth before
the cold cover of night chills the rose, bends the
grass and settles to the earth to await the morn.

* Written by Elizabeth Stewart Budd in the summer of 1961 during the year spent at Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland.
Elizabeth withdrew from Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts so that she could be in Ireland during the year that Boyce Budd, her older brother was at Trinity College, Cambridge, England.

Harold Boyce Budd, Jr. graduated from Yale University in 1961, and Elizabeth graduated from Smith in 1964.

Younger brother, David Alexander Budd, graduated from Hobart College, in 1969 and he also took a year abroad at Queen's College in Belfast, Ireland.