Bog-land Studies :: :: University of Virginia Library

There's a bit of a hill rises up, right fornint the big hole—the same sort
As ye'll count be the dozen in bogs, wid the grass on't fine-bladed an' short,
An' the furzes an' broom in a ruffle a-top, an' flat stones peepin' out,
Where it's pleasant to sit in the sun and be lookin' around and about,

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Whin the bog wid its stacks and its pools spreads away to the rim o' the blue
That lanes over as clear as a glass, on'y somehow wan ne'er can see thro'.
An' there's plenty to mind, sure, if on'y ye look to the grass at your feet,
For 'tis thick wid the tussocks of heather, an' blossoms and herbs that smell sweet
If ye tread thim; an' maybe the white o' the bog-cotton waved in the win',
Like the wool ye might shear off a night-moth, an' set an ould fairy to spin;
Or wee frauns, each wan stuck 'twixt two leaves on a grand little stem of its own,
Lettin' on 'twas a plum on a tree; an' the briers thrailed o'er many a stone
Dhroppin' dewberries, black-ripe and soft, fit to melt into juice in your hould;
An' the bare stones thimselves 'ill be dusted wid circles o' silver an' gould—

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Nelly called thim the moon an' the sun—an' grey patches like moss that's got froze,
Wid white cups in't that take a red rim by the time we've the sheaves up in rows;
I'd be vexed whin they turned, for a sign that the summer was slippin' away,
But poor Nelly was pleased wid the little bright sthrakes growin' broader each day.