Across the moorland
flowing with bog cotton
as white as snow,
a wee black hoose
empty topples,
the spinning wheel
has froze and rust
and crottle grows the chair
where mammy, who nursed
the fair colleen,
lies unforgotton.
The scream:
“níl aon ní úr faoin spéir
ach leis imeacht aimsire
fearr is agamsa atá a fhios
tha
fearr is agamsa atá a fhios
agus an bhuil a fhios agat seo
ach leis búireach na gaoithe
chuala scrèach mi duine ar bìth
nìl
chuala scrèach mi duine ar bìth”
“there is nothing new under the sun
but with the passing of time
I should know better,
Yes,
I should know better;
and I do
it’s just:
that with the howls of the wind
no-one can hear me screaming,
No,
No-one can hear me screaming!”