Fields that once were ripe with crops
Now play host to blackface and cheviot
Where the children ran and played
Among the bluebell and the thistle
Now screams the wind in bansidhe wail
Looking for those who once dwelt there.
This land was once our land
Where we lived and loved
Rings now with silence
In this our last dance.
In wooden vessels on the clyde
Like the silver darlings
They were packed side by side
Across the mighty sea
To lands of distant shore.
Homes in ruin lie ivy on the roof
Grass cropped short by a million mouths
Flies the eagle his gaze on land below
Looking for the people who danced to natures tune
Still grow the bluebells among
Pine and birks and stream.
Apm 4/1/14 1.25 am.