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






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