Hie we away to the hill-top,
To the cutting of the peat!
The sun in the east is rising,
The wind from the west is sweet.
See the mountains doff their night-caps,
And to attention stand,
While over them soars the day-god
So glorious and so grand.
Hie we away up the bog road,
A dusty ribbon unfurled;
From the valley low, upward we go.
Till we stand on the top of the world.
Then away with the coats that cumber
The cutter who shapes the peat,
The filler who builds each barrow,
And the wheeler strong and fleet.
The cuckoo is sweetly calling,
The scream of the curlew’s shrill;
And the moor-fowl bid us failte
To their home on the heather hill.
But, halt! It is appetising work,
Hurry and light the fire,
And run and bring from the mountain spring
The water that we require.
Our table is now the heather,
Our seat is the heather, too –
We dine beside our camp fire
As bogmen love to do.
The boglarks sing to cheer us
As they climb up sunbeam stairs;
And on heathery harps the bogwind
Is playing enchanting airs.
As rose the sun in the morning,
So sinks the sun to rest;
So hie we home to our cabins,
And the ones that we love best.
The curling smoke from our chimneys
Seem to wave a welcome home
To the bands of tired turf-cutters
Who down the bog road come.
Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone