Peat Cutting Men Poem by Robert Lyle

They toiled with hands like tree bark
As they cut through rotted peat
Stacking it in heaps to dry
Did not have to be that neat
Just so long as the Westerly's
Could dry out the peat bog water
So it could burn on winters nights
Was all that really mattered
And they could sit in warm habs
With hot broth in their hand
Another day's work completed
And an evening's rest began
Fine clothes for Sundays they were saved
So they could look their best
While thanking God in Heaven above
For this His blessed day of rest
When they could sit down at the pew
With Hymn book at the ready
To sing their praises to the Lord
With voices strong and steady
Then off to Pub to sup a pint
And wild stories for to tell
Of how they dug for peat so deep
They nearly ended up in hell