Do ye remember the days we cut the turf?
We’d hurry home up the road from school
Throw off the uniform and bags to change
To the normal oul jeans, wellies and shirts
Then over the mountains or round the fields
To reach the freedom of the springy heather
And spongy moss underfoot.
To plowter through stream or leap in a bound
Laughing and chasing like mad eejits
Racing to be the first to sit in Finn’s Chair!
King of the Mountain, even if you’re a girl!
The curlews and skylarks calling; frogs to be trailed
Til you reach the slap where now you can be seen
Though God only knows they heard you a mile off!
Hurry up the cut of the rough road
Always the quickest way though risking a fall
On golden stones ripped from the mountain
To reach the lane before the gate that leads to our bank
Up past the gurgling bog water stream
and throw yourself over the gate if its closed
Or saunter up all cool and hallooo!
As if they didn’t know when you passed up into the mountain
A quick drink of tea, they’ve  been waiting for a break!
Aye, some tea or diluted lemon barley water
And a handful of sandwiches, maybe a digestive as well
Then to work and hard work it is too
cutting, filling, wheeling, spreading
All the while chatting, laughing, having craic
Many hands making light work
Of supplying winters’ fuel.

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