'T IS meself that hates the city, an' the hurry, an' the din — An' I wish that I was out of it, its worry an' its sin, For me mind is on the bogland, when the day is drear an' dim; I could be happy all me life, if I was back with him. But the wurl is up agin' me, an' so bitter is me heart, For he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart. 'T is meself that loved the bogland stretchin' out agin' the sky, With the summer flowers a-blowin' an' the peat-stacks gettin' dry; There was dew upon the heather at the dawnin' o' the day, An' the rushes in the marshes ever sung their sleepy lay, An' he told me in the gloamin' that I won his manly heart, But he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart. 'T is meself that loved to linger when the big red sun went down, An' the purple heavens rested on the bogland lone an' brown; I told him when I met him that I loved the evenin' air, Tho' glorious the evenin' well I knew he would be there, An' he loved me with devotion, an' he pressed me to his heart, But he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart. 'T is meself regrets the hour that I met the stranger there, But he had got a manner fine an' such a pleasant air; He told me of the wonder sights an' glories of the town Until me eyes grew weary of the bogland's waste of brown, But though the strangers' halls are fine, mine is a broken heart, For he is on the bogland yet, an' I am far apart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE KNIGHT'S TOMB by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE A DOUBTFUL CHOICE by EDWARD DE VERE DORA VERSUS ROSE by HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON SEASHORE (1) by RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE DESCRIPTION OF COOKHAM by AEMILIA (BASSANO) LANYER |