I often hear word of the emerald isle,
Of green shamrocks and four-leafed clovers,
And blue rivers that flow for mile after mile,
Grassy mounds with rainbows stretching over.
But each month I trek back to old Donegal –
To the land of wet mud and dry rushes,
Matted sheep here and there and trees ready to fall
And dead twigs sticking out of beige bushes.
So I know for sure all that’s gold doesn’t glisten,
The richest men are those with land to roam.
And green or not green, I just wish they would listen:
It may be brown, but to me it is home.