Born on a croft, your forefathers
dug peat and potatoes.
As for you, a lifetime in the pit,
harvesting the black gold.
Now, your brogue still as soft
as rain falling on green Irish hills,
you dig your own ground
and sow your own crops -
a lifetime of pick and spade,
fork and hoe; till one day
other hands will dig for you
an everlasting plot.
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