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
Incurious as my black hills that are
When dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel.
My hills hoard the bright shillings of
While the sun searches in every pocket.
They are my Alps and I have climbed the
With a sheaf of hay for three perishing
In the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage.
The sleety winds fondle the rushy beards of
While the cattle-drovers sheltering in the Featherna
Look up and say: "Who owns them hungry
That the water-hen and snipe must have forsaken?
A poet?
Then by heavens he must be poor."I hear and is my heart not badly shaken?
