Meus montes pretos nunca viram o sol levantar-se, eternally eles olham nortes para Armagh. A esposa do lote não seria sal se fosse incurious como meus montes pretos que são felizes quando o alvorecer whitens o chapel de Glassdrummond.
Meus montes hoard os shillings brilhantes de março quando o sol procurarar em cada bolso. São meus alpes e eu escalei o Matterhorn com um sheaf do feno para três que perishing calves no campo sob o grande adiante de Rocksavage.
Os ventos sleety fondle os beards rushy de Shancoduff quando os gado-guardadores de gado que protegem no Featherna Bush olharem acima e disserem: ' quem os possui os montes com fome que a água-galinha e snipe deve forsaken? Um poeta? Então por heavens deve ser pobre.' Eu ouço-me e sou-me meu coração agitado não mal?
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