I speak with a proud tongue of the people who were And the people who are, The worthy of Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel, My kindred The people of the hills and the dark-haired passes My neighbours on the lift of the brae, In the lap of the valley. To them Slainthe! I speak of the old men, The wrinkle-rutted, Who dodder about foot-weary For their day is as the day that has been and is no more Who warm their feet by the fire, And recall memories of the times that are gone; Who kneel in the lamplight and pray For the peace that has been theirs And who beat one dry-veined hand against another Even in the sun For the coldness of death is on them. I speak of the old women Who danced to yesterday's fiddle And dance no longer. They sit in a quiet place and dream And see visions Of what is to come, Of their issue, Which has blossomed to manhood and womanhood And seeing thus They are happy For the day that was leaves no regrets, And peace is theirs And perfection. I speak of the strong men Who shoulder their burdens in the hot day, Who stand on the market-place And bargain in loud voices, Showing their stock to the world. Straight the glance of their eyes Broad-shouldered, Supple. Under their feet the holms blossom, The harvest yields. The their path is of prosperity. I speak of the women, Strong hipped, full-bosomed, Who drive the cattle to graze at dawn, Who milk the cows at dusk. Grace in their homes, And in the crowded ways Modest and seemly Mother of children! I speak of the children Of the many townlands, Blossoms of the Bogland, Flowers of the Valley, Who know not yesterday, nor to-morrow, And are happy, The pride of those who have begot them. And thus it is, Every and always, In Ardara, the Rosses and Inishkeel Here, as elsewhere, The Weak, the Strong, and the Blossoming And thus my kindred. To them Slainthe!

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