Shayleen's Ireland

Across the hills in the morning mist, Are the soft echoes of the bagpipes, as gentle as a mother’s kiss. In the dark of night as the moon shines bright, The wee folk come and dance until the morning’s light. A land filled with river and streams, Sprawling valley’s lush and green. Among the pine trees where the Druids once roamed, There is the paradise called Galicia, where my father was born. Standing on the mountain where a tower now stands, The Celtics could see across the water to a land they would claim and call it Ireland. Though many would say there is no truth and it’s just a story, Yet in the early morning across the land one can hear the sounds of bagpipes Playing a soft melody.