Books and other items printed in Gaelic from 1871 to 1900 > Gaelic bards, and original poems

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MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
The dry bent, the moor grass bare,
With the sappy herbs are there,
That make fat, and full, and fair,
Her plump quarters all.
And those little wells are nigh,
Where the water cresses lie,
Above wine she likes to try
Their waves’ solacing;
Of the rye-grass, twisted rows,
On the rude hill side it grows,
Than of rarest festal shows
Is she fonder far.
The choice increase of the earth
Forms her joyous treat;
The primrose, St. John’s wort,
Tops of go wans sweet,
The new buds of the groves,
The soft heath o’er which she roves,
Are the tit-bits that she loves,
With good cause too.
For speckled, spotted, rare,
Tall, and fine, and fair,
From such food before her there
She grows sonsily;
And it is still the surest mean
To cure the weak ones and the lean,
Who for any time have been
Wasted, wan, and low.
Soon it would clothe their back
With the garb which most they lack—
That rich fat, which they can pack
Most commodiously.