O Monaghan hills
You have made me the sort of man I am
A fellow who can never care a damn
For Everest thrills
The country of my mind
Has a hundred little heads
On none of which foot-room for genius.
Because of you I am a half-faithed ploughman
Shallow furrows at my heels
Because of you I am a beggar of song
And a coward in thunder.
If I had been born among the Mournes
Even in Forkhill
I might have had echo-corners in my soul
Repeating the dawn laughter.
I might have climbed to know the glory
Of toppling from the roof of seeing -
O Monaghan hills when is writ your story
A carbon-copy will unfold my being.
§ In Line 10, 'song' is substituted for 'truth'.
In Line 15, 'laughter' is substituted for 'music'.
