In the kingdom they call “Kerry” there‘ s a “bohareen” goes climbin’
Above the thatch o’ cots at Ballymore —
A little rovin’ footway — an’ the goat bells keep a-chimin’
In the heather slopin’ upward from the shore
For the slopes are clad with heather, noddin’ heather, purple heather,
Where the bees make honey-music in the noon;
An’ if you should chance to stray there in a scrap o’ sunny weather
A warbler will be tossin’ you a tune.
An’ you can look to seaward through the gray-green gulf o’ wonder
An’ watch the slantin’ sails a-dippin’ far,
An’ you can mark about you how the rocks are rent asunder,
An’ the heights are mountin’ up to reach the star.
But it‘ s not the sea below it, nor the craggy crests above it,
Nor the bracken with the mosses soft between,
Nor the droopin’ bells o’ heather, nay, it‘ s not for these I love it,
That wanderin’, that windin’ “bohareen!”
But a thought that keeps a-chimin’ in my heart like tender rhymin’
Of one who clambered upward from the shore —
Whose feet with mine kept timin’ as the pair o’ us went climbin’
Long ago that “bohareen” at Ballymore!