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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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