The Way Wid Singin'

Faith , niver the sail calls the frith-wind,
Nor the turf comethers the rain;
And niver the Fairy-Thorn frets for the spring,
Or the brae for the summer again!
And niver a boreen can ask for a bird,
Or beg for a whin-chat's strain!

Not took from me head are these planxties;
These chunes they are nothin' av men!
They come as the whin-chat comes in spring
And the grackle-thrush back to the glen!
They come loike the rain to the turf, me lad,
And the Saints know how and when!