Shancoduff 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 beenIncurious as my black hills that are happyWhen dawn whitens Glassdrummond chapel. My hills hoard the bright shillings of MarchWhile the sun searches in every pocket.They are my Alps and I have climbed the MatterhornWith a sheaf of hay for three perishing calvesIn the field under the Big Forth of Rocksavage. The sleety winds ****** the the rushy beards of ShancoduffWhile the cattle - drovers sheltering in the Featherna BushLook up and say: "Who owns them hungry hillsThat the water - hen and snip must have forsaken?A poet? Then by heavens he must be poor."I hear and is my heart not badly shaken?
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