Classic Poem

The Twelve Pins of Connaught
They stand up in a row
To catch the moon and starshine
The sunset's fading glow;
And every god in Ireland
Vowed thrice that he would win,
Tho' he should pull for ever,
A mountain for his pin.

The Twelve Pins of Connaught
Were neither bought nor sold,
Though one was made of silver
And one of finest gold;
Though four were cut from emeralds
And three from amethyst,
And one was all of diamond
That sparkled through the mist

The Twelve Pins of Connaught
Are still the gods' desire,
For one is mossy agate
And one a great sapphire.
But though the high gods pulled them,
And pulled with all their might,
The Twelve Pins stand in Connaught
This day for man's delight.