the mountains
there are mists in the north
and from the clouds ascending
is the place of faeries seen
gone now is the morning
and though my day is at an ending
through darkness is the green
what mists there were and are
can never cloud the ancient truth
that poets’ spirits are still here
just as they’ve always been.
I let my thoughts go black and cold
but not of midnight’s darkened dread
instead a smoothest velvet’s hold
plays fancy in my head
in nectars brewed for drunken bards
and princes ancient o’ Tyrone
then I shall sing a maudlin verse
to toast forefathers never known
for in my cups some past awakes
a life of which no memory
but that pure fancy can but make
of sainted minstrels that were me.
and from the hazels
knowledge fell
to feed the salmon
in the well
there princes high
and poets dwell
this green land’s
fables all to tell.
the blighters rock 