LThe Turf Cutters Dream

Turf cutters lonely they are not,
toiling in solitariness with endless rhythm.
Ancient traditions not forgotten,
the the turf cutters slaen toils and cuts, toils and cuts,
dawn to dusk.

She breathes life serenely, gently heaving a substance of beautiful peat brown.
Splashes of emerald green and pearls of purple heather. A gentle breeze she sighs for the Red Admiral and the Cabbage Butterflies.
The turf cutters slaen toils and cuts, toils and cuts, from dawn to dusk.

The billy-can whistles a call to togetherness.
The Seanachai wets the thistle.
Old tales of men brave and bold, how bog was turfed and sold.
Arise! Toast on holy ground to traditions of old.
The turf cutters slaen toils and cuts, toils and cuts,
dawn to dusk.

On horizon a hare lingers about, the curlew's cry haunts the evening guiding the low flying snipe.
The turf cutters slaen toils and cuts, toils and cuts,
dawn to dusk.

Cottage lantern lights, flickering willow o' wisp's encompass Allen.
Billowing smoke curls from chimney tops greet a frost.
Bowing towards the tower on the hill he salutes.
The turf cutters slaen toils and cuts, toils and cuts,
dawn to dusk.