Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Fond fancy often wafts me o’er the intervening sea,
To the dear scenes of my childhood, to each soft vale and wildwood –
But the brown bogs of Ireland have a special charm for me.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Full many a pleasant hour I passed upon the mountain’s heath,
While the Irish sun shone o’er me, and the moor-fowl fled before me,
As I roamed with dear companions, and surveyed the vales beneath.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Now often in my day dreams in this city’s throbbing heart,
I forget its din and bustle, and I hear the heather rustle
In the wind, as o’er the mountain road I drive an Irish cart.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
I fancy here I listen to the mountain lark on high;
I see it skyward winging, and I hear its wild notes ringing,
And I watch it disappearing in the blue depths of the sky.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
The thought of them recalls me to a pretty girlish face
Wistful eyes and wavy tresses, which the mountain wind caresses;
Oh! Kathleen, in my desert heart there’s still a verdant place.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
I’m weary of the city, with its wickedness and care;
I’m lone with thousands round me, for their cold looks only wound me
Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! I would that I were there.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

 Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.