Dear Jenny,
Thank you for your letter telling me about your book project to raise money for refugee children. I’m delighted you asked me to be involved.
I’ve enclosed a copy of “Cuttin’ Rushes,” a poem by Moira O’Neill, who was an Irish poet. My mother was a recitalist and this was one of her favorite poems. In the old days at social gatherings in Hollywood, everyone would take turns performing for each other. I would sing and my mother would recite poetry. I heard her recite this poem so often I learned it by assimilation!
Yours sincerely,
CUTTIN’ RUSHES
Oh, maybe it was yesterday, or fifty years ago!
Meself was risin’ early on a day for cuttin’ rushes.
Walkin’ up the Brabla’ burn, still the sun was low,
Now I’d hear the burn run an’ then I’d hear the thrushes.
Young, still young! — and drenchin’ wet the grass,
Wet the golden honeysuckle hangin’ sweetly down;
Here, lad, here! will ye follow where I pass,
An’ find me cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.
Then was it only yesterday, or fifty years or so?
Rippen’ round the bog pools high among the heather,
The hook it made me hand sore, I had to leave it go,
‘Twas he that cut the rushes then for me to bind together.
Come, dear, come! — an’ back along the burn
See the darlin’ honeysuckle hangin’ like a crown.
Quick, one kiss, — sure, there’s some one at the turn!
“Oh, we’re after cuttin’ rushes on the mountain.”
Yesterday, yesterday, or fifty years ago ….
I waken out O’ dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that’s the Brabla’ burn, I can hear it sing an’ flow,
For all that’s fair I’d sooner see a bunch O’ green rushes.
Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young?
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an’ brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?
— Moira O’Neill