Classic Poem

Meenahalla bedding and grass,
Butter and milk in Inishmool,
And big the pastures in Ardnaglass
That has no equal in sheep and wool —
There are seven corners in Donegal,
And acres many meadow and moor;
Rich in money, but that and all,
The folk of the Rosses are very poor.

The guinea coin is the butt of care,
And hearts are heavy for hands that hold,
But the Rosses people, and they be bare,
Have neither their hearts in gear nor gold —
And it's all of them always for song and fun,
First to frolic at dance and spree
With nimble toes when the day is done,
In Carrandooragh and Meenaree.

And they take the gifts from the mill and churn
And the mallard wor on the Rosses bog
To the gentle oak by the Dooran burn
For the little people from Tir nan Og,
Who come with the dusk their gifts to find
In the sacred ring by the haunted oak,
And they weave a spell over souls so kind,
So the Rosses people are happy folk.