Up at Loch Patrick the mist it is falling,
Hiding the waters so silent and cold;
Up at Loch Patrick the moor-fowl is calling,
Up at Loch Patrick the gorse is gold.
Gold is the gorse and dark purple the heather,
Rain-wet their blossoms all fragrant and sweet,
Hidden by mists and untroubled by weather
Lies the wee Loch at the dark mountain’s feet.
Haunted by pheasant and curlew and plover,
Fringed by blae-berries and slender green sedge.
Well do I mind the dear days long over,
Cutting and “footing” the turf at its edge.
Many’s the “Station” in summer we made there
Sinking in clabair that circled the lake
Many’s the prayer in the Gaelic we prayed there,
Many’s the earnest petition we’d make.
Up at Loch Patrick the grey mists are falling,
Up at Loch Patrick the gorse it is gold.
Here ‘mid the stranger my heart it is calling
For the loved scenes and the dear friends of old.
Poem by Nora Ni Chathain