Fond memories of youthful days, how
often I recall,
Each season with its changeful ways, spring summer, winter, fall;
And as the happy hours of childhood, by the shore at Castlehill.
The winter wind would sting our cheeks,
but still we took our walk,
To see the breakers rolling in, with wave tops white as chalk;
The booming surge of surf s feared, the ocean never still,
But spellbound there we stood beside the shore at Castlehill.
Then Spring with milder days, which
brought the primrose on the brae,
We roamed to gather bunches of the tiny flowers so gay;
Then off to look for 'Groaties' from the Battery to the Mill,
there was no end of things to do, at the shore at Castlehill.
In summer there was bathing in the
Peedie Sannie Bay,
And on the Big Sand, we went paddling all day;
We'd climb the running valley, then headlong down until,
We'd finish up among the waves of the shore at Castlehill.
The rocks and pools held wonders that
never ceased to charm,
We moved a stone and scuttling creatures fled in great alarm;
We found small crabs and fishes and picked with right good will,
The 'limpeds' clinging to the rocky shores at Castlehill.
But summer turned to autumn, the season
best of all,
With sellags swarming in the bay for fishes big and small;
We'd rush from school and grab our rods, nor would we stop until,
We reached the harbour or the rocks, to fish at Castlehill.
The hours sped by, as bait and fly were
used to lure our prey,
With varying degrees of luck till closing of the day;
then clutching strings of sellags, with hands both numb and chill,
We'd trudge home, tired but happy, from the shore at Castlehill.
These carefree days seem far off now,
but memories remain,
Of lessons learned beside the sea, from which we still may gain;
From tthe patience of the fisher to the young explorer's thrill,
Discovering nature's wonders, by the shores at Castlehill.
Winter sunshine in its beauty,
Gliding all in golden glow;
Giving us a taste of heaven,
Midst the darkness here below.
Flock of pigeons, flying swiftly,
Dark against the clear blue sky;
then a sudden turning, whirling,
Quickly gilds them as they fly.
Spellbound there I gaze in wonder,
Not a wing beat out of time;
All rejoicing in their order,
Savouring the light sublime.
Then no longer are they winging,
And no other birds appear;
Overhead a jet is zooming,
Man-made weapon bringing fear.
when the aeroplanes are silent,
And the bombers cease to fly;
there will still be birds - sunbeams,
Brightening up the winter sky.