In the dream garden of my heart
There is one bower set apart
For dreams of thee, and only thee –
Asthore machrea!
In this dream garden there are bowers
Where grow wild weeds and lovely flowers;
Where shabbiness competes with grace
For pride of place.
But in one bower, Asthore machree! –
One; dedicated all to thee,
Nothing that’s not a flower fair
As thee, is there.
Our years of love are flowers sweet,
Our trials, triumph, and defeat;
Each deed, each dream of love’s a flower
To deck that bower.
The garden of my heart some day
Must turn to dust, its flowers decay:
But love lives on in heaven’s bowers –
Such love as ours.

Long years ago I plucked a bunch of heather;
For you, aroon, I plucked it, dewy wet,
Upon a hill which we oft climbed together –
Upon the hill where first in youth we met.

Now we are old, and faded is love’s token;
But in our hearts that love is blooming still –
‘Tis like our trysting tree, by storms unbroken,
That deeper, firmer roots into the hill.

We’ve climbed the hill of life together bravely;
And now, while drawing closer to the crown,
We often pause, and turn, surveying gravely
The slopes behind, and youth’s plateau far down.

A hard flight was ours, but love gave strength to fight it;
Though rough the road you never did complain;
With some hopes realised, and many blighted,
We’ve had our share of sunshine and of rain.

Together we have climbed life’s hill – together
May we step forth upon the long, long road
That stretches upwards from the hill of heather,
To where awaits our heavenly abode.

With her besom in her hand,
After having swept the floor –
O! she made a picture grand,
Framed within the open door.

Picture grand! – eyes never saw,
Hand of artist never drew
Aught so fair and free from flaw,
As the maid that met my view.

I have roamed in many climes,
Many oceans have I crossed,
Been in love some dozen times,
Seen of handsome girls a host.

Yet, she was the fairest fair,
Ever I set eyes upon;
Beautiful beyond compare –
Brighter than the noon day sun.

Did I love her? – are you wise
To put such a question, sir?
Sure I loved my very eyes –
‘Cause they loved to look at her.

What ? – describe her ? – deed I’ll not,
Shakespear, Dryden, Goldsmith,
Though they wrote and read a lot
Could not do it, I am sure.

Forty years from then have flown;
Now if her you’d like to see
There’s a cabin in Tyrone;
Where she dwells, my wife, with me.

We have children o’er the waves,
Some have settled in Tyrone;
Some are sleeping in their graves
Soon we’ll take the road they’ve gone.

Now I am an old, old man,
She’s an old, old woman now;
Her once rosy cheeks are wan,
Time and toil have marked her brow.

Still I love her as of yore –
Though she’s not as fresh and grand
As when standing in her door,
With her besom in her hand.