Classic Poem

In summer time I foot the turf
And lay the sods to dry,
South wind and lark's song, and the sun far up in the sky.
I pile them on the turf stack
Against the time of snow,
Black frost, a gale from the north, who minds what winds will blow?

Now winter's here, make up the fire,
And let you bolt the door.
A wind across the mountains, a draught across the floor,
I'll not be heeding cold or rain,
Or moaning of the wind,
With the turf fire, the hearth stone, the notions in my mind.

I've seen a power of years itself
That's gone beyond recall,
The leaves of spring, the days of youth, where are they now at all?
The withered leaves lie in the glen,
The days of youth are dead,
Now it's long nights and long thoughts while the sods o' turf glow red.

I see myself a barefoot child,
I see myself a lad,
When the gold upon the gorse bush was all the gold I had.
I do be having fine old dreams
Of days were long ago,
When the wind keens, the night falls, and the embers glow.