Where I Come From

I come from The Bog of Allen, beneath the seat of the ancient King,

Listen for the distant Corncrake, hear the Lark and the Curlew sing,

Where the heather and the moss grow, and the turf lies row after row,

Out there in the sun to dry, breathe it in as I walk on by,

Where the kids and the dogs all muck in to gather,

Bringing home the turf, no matter what the weather.

I’m a bogman, deep down, it’s where I come from

I was walking along the seashore, in a distant land,

Dreaming of Barronstown, Bridie, Frank and Nan,

I put the saddle on the pony in the corner field, and cantered down the lane,

I was heading for the yellow bog, Sonny was on the slane,

He was cutting deep into the turf, he was pegging it on up high,

Neddy was catching  on the bank as Gary was spread it out to dry,

Footing it, they’re cutting it, they’re clamping it together,

Bringing home the turf no matter what the weather


When they heard the Milltown bell  the turfmen paused to pray,

Bridie’s coming down the meadow with the billy-cans of tea,

Nanny’s got the basket on her arm to feed them hungry men,

The Dowling girls are on the bog in the heat of the midday sun,

I’m dreaming, dreaming, of the jet black loam,

The roots of the long haul journey men kept calling me back home,

From way out west in Canada, from deep down in Geelong,

To the yellow bog in Allenwood, the place where I belong