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'.