MONAGHAN Monaghan, mother of a thousand Little moulded hills, Set about with little rivers Chained to little mills. Rich and many-pastured Monaghan, Mild thy meadows lie, Melting to the distant mountains On the mirrored sky. Lovely, lowly-lying Monaghan, On they little lakes Float and tremble lordly lilies Hoed by fairies' rakes. Silvered o'er with sunshine, or by Night with shimmering fog, Where thy sloping cornland meets Beauteous fields of bog. Humbly hid with heath and lichen Waits thy turf of old, While the hasty bees come hiding Honey thro' thy mould. Thro' and thro' thy restless rushes Runs a thousand rills, Lisping long-forgotten little Songs of Ireland's ills. For thy mingled chaplet, oak and Beechwood thou dost bind Green in summer, and in winter Musical with wind. -- Shane Leslie (born 1885)