He gave me back my fidil, My fidil-stick, also, And stepping like a mayboy, He jumped the Leargaidh Knowe. I never saw him after, Nor met his gentle kind; But, whiles, I think I hear him A-wheening in the wind!
My father and mother were Irish, And I am Irish, too: I bought a wee fidil for ninepence, And it is Irish, too. I'm up in the morning early To meet the dawn of day, And to the lintwhite's piping The many's the tune I play.
Grasslands are fair, Ploughlands are rare. Grasslands are lonely, Ploughlands are comely. Grasslands breed cattle, Ploughlands feed people. Grasslands are not wrought, Ploughlands swell with thought.
'Twould skin a fairy It is so airy, And the snow it nips so cold: Shepherd and squire Sit by the fire, The sheep are in the fold.
You have your wish-- A reeking dish, And rubble walls about; So pity the poor That have no door To keep the winter out!
I follow a star Burning deep in the blue, A sign on the hills Lit for me and for you!
Moon-red is the star, Halo-ringed like a rood, Christ's heart in its heart set, Streaming with blood.
Follow the gilly Beyond to the west: He leads where the Christ lies On Mary's white breast.
King, priest and prophet-- A child, and no more-- Adonai the Maker! Come, let us adore.
The silence of unlaboured fields Lies like a judgment on the air: A human voice is never heard: The sighing grass is everywhere-- The sighing grass, the shadowed sky, The cattle crying wearily!
Where are the lowland people gone? Where are the sun-dark faces now? The love that kept the quiet hearth, The strength that held the speeding plough? Grasslands and lowing herds are good, But better human flesh and blood!
I watched at a beggar's wake In the hills of Bearna-barr, And the old men were telling stories Of Troy and the Trojan war.
And a flickering fire of bog-deal Burned on the open hearth, And the night-wind roared in the chimney, And darkness was over the earth.
And Tearlach Ban MacGiolla, The piper of Gort, was there, And he sat and he dreamed apart In the arms of a sugan chair.
And sudden he woke from his dream Like a dream-frightened child, And his lips were pale and trembling, And his eyes were wild.
And he stood straight up, and he cried, With a wave of his withered hand, "The days of the grasping stranger Shall be few in the land!