Here I am on a Chilean shore,
I know I’ll wander this World no more;
I’ve had my three score years and ten,
Time allotted to mere mortal men.
There is no doubt I’ll soon expire,
I feel my limbs and body tire;
In my mind I see a place,
To the North which I now face.
It is the Town of old Glenarm
A place of magic and of charm;
The Vennel, Altmore, Mark and Toberwine,
Those little streets I remember fine.
Around these places I used to run
When just a boy in pursuit of fun;
I was hunted by Lord Antrim’s men,
Whilst poaching Salmon in his glen.
There is a Fairy-tale Castle there
With rounded turrets in the air;
Oh! To be in that place where I was born,
At this time as I feel forlorn.
I left it oh so long ago,
But I have always missed it so;
I know as in this shack I lie,
That I am frail and about to die.
My spirit then will rise above
And fly like Noah’s snowy Dove;
To old Glenarm for one last look
Before God opens his great book.
Monty Alexander 21.2.96