Bròn

There's deer upon the mountain There’s sheep along the glen The forests hum with feather But where are now the men? Here's but my mother's garden Where soft the footsteps fall My folk are quite forgotten But the nettle’s over all O! black might be that ruin Where my fathers dwelt so long And nothing hide the shame of it The ugliness and wrong; The cabar and the corner-stone Might bleach in wind and rains But for the gentle nettle That took such a courtier's pains The friends are all departed The hearth-stone is black and cold And sturdy grows the nettle On the place beloved of old