In the oil-lamp’s mellow light
Fear and fancies crowd in sight,
While outside the waiting night
Draws in eerily!
In the farmyard hear dog howl,
Contented cluck of brooding fowl,
Perhaps the hoot of hunting owl
Lingers drearily.

Round the chiollagh aged men
Tell age-worn stories o’er again,
Ripe material for some pen
Underneath the rafter!
Pipes are lit and smokes arise,
Mouths agape and staring eyes,
Now a shout of great surprise
And a burst of laughter.

Thus the country’s lore begins,
Literature its origins
Here discovers while one spins
Blend of fact and fiction;
Reading is an unknown art,
Modern science plays no part,
Here a man unfolds his heart
With never a restriction.