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The new roves are not like the old,
They purvey an unwieldy aspect
To their elderly kindred folk;
Even on this steep hill forms encroach
Upon an edifice grand of bygone grandeur;

 So to ‘Ghurt Muire’ that Jacobean domain
With its winding entrance avenue,
And meadows of barley cane;
There the ancient tenants lived’
Atkinson, Redmond and the Burke,
John Garner Nutley,
A City sheriff of the Purse;

It lastly lived in by Le’ Froy
A family still remembered;

There I met Brother Mangen
Just back from Tanzanian stay-
Who tutored me at Synge Street,
With fervent holistic play 

There I spied a boathouse
Formed of natural rock,
From that spanned a lilied pond,
It formed in like a frock;
There I saw the Douglas fur,
The ash and native beech,
Where woodcock made their nest,
And flew amid the oak and alder weep.					


To the East there stands a folly tower,
Built in De’Burgo style
And made of local granite,
With rising stair and panelled wall’s
And chanclet niches on it:

Onto the house and to the rear
A conservatory must be seen,
Of wrought iron base with florid motif
Adorned about the screen;
Built of arcs and circlets
With geranium reds, coppers, ambers, greens and blues
Of hueful inset panes,
And a lightning pin shoots up amid its arkful maine.


On entering the billiard room
One’s senses do amaze,
At copper embossed cladded walls’
And a fully fennialed fireplace,
Which has in ceramic tile there,
The muses of the arts fare.

Then above:
 The ceiling must be seen,
It fully bracketed and lofted
With kings and queens of post,
And pilistered at every rafter
All this of native oaks. 

But to the front and to the north
An eyepiece is in view,
The first floor balconied window
With casements of stained glass hue;
Compromised of minute squares,
With asterix inserted centrally here and there.
And a square urned rococo balustrade,
Cut from Spanish Portland
With good speese of care

Yet in it all I found a friend,
The gardener of the gate,
He knew all there was to know about that place,
In its botonics did excale,
For he had culled and planted every tree
That could be found around the pale.


So I say to all young artists
And fellows of my race,
That if make vent to follow me,
Then also wean my trace;
For often here in Ballinteer,
On a summers morning,
On a clear and silent night;
T’is like seeing angel’s deening
With their God,
Then making off to flight.
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