The Bogs

THE BOGS You can here her faint voice in the brisk mornin breeze sure she sings for her lover, down under the trees, and all Ireland can hear every word she will sing, when the bogs are dressed out in the colors of spring. She will sing her heart out, every mornin at dawn Allmighty, how she will sing, she will sing, and her voice is a heart ache and brings a tear on when she lost her lover, she lost every thing. But the bogs have no mercy for a lass so alone she sings every mornin each plea ever known, and they'll never give up someone they might claim if you go to far they will call out your name. And she can sing, she can sing! I'll say she can sing! Almighty, how she can sing! And you will cry, you will cry. When you hear her sing! Almighty, how you will cry! I am assuming many people will be able to read this in their minds, as they read line to line, in the traditional Irish voice as the poem was originally written, this being a translation. I will submit the original a little later...