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Updated: May 1, 2025
And the air brought back in a flash my own little house on the grey hill-sides of Douglasdale, the cluck of hens about the doors on a hot summer morn, the crying of plovers in the windy Aprils, the smell of peatsmoke when the snow drifted over Cairntable.
He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. I couldn't bring him in to hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it. Bound thee forth, my booklet, quick To greet the callous public. Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish In lean unlovely English. The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined. We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy.
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