My black hills have never seen the sun rising Eternally they look north towards Armagh Lot's wife would not be salt if she had been Incurious as my black hills that are happy When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel My hills hoard the bright shillings of March Till the sun searches the last pocket They are my Alps and I have climbed the Matterhorn With a sheaf of hay for the cattle many a time. My hills have never seen the sun rising With the faith of illiterate peasants they await The final resurrection when all hills Will face the East. The sleety winds fondle the rusty beards of Shanco Dubh While the cattle-smugglers sheltering in Featherna Bush Look up and say: Who owns them hungry hills That the water-hen and snipe must have foresaken? A Poet? Then by heavens he must be lean… I hear and is my faith not somewhat shaken?