A Turf Cart rumbling through the Bog,
A lone tree dancing by the narrow path,
Trembling Sedge by a mouldering Log,
A rodent covering in withered grass.
A pale moon shining on silver frost,
A Blackbird in the willows far away,
Song that is bourne to a valley and lost,
The river and night mist gathering grey.
Homeward a weary peasant is steering,
A Bay with light and prancing feet,
High is the head Homestead is nearing,
A crib piled high with dark brown peat.
Chains keep clanging, Axle strikes loud,
The Linchpin is jumping mad in the wheel,
Leathers are creaking on a shoulder broad,
Backband swaying on its path of steel.
Back to index