DEDICATION 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. And 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, Ever 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. -- Patrick MacGill (born 1890)