The Mournes


I shall not go to heaven when I die

I think I’ll take a road I used to know

That goes by Slieve-na-Garagh and the sea

And all day breasting me the wind shall blow

And I’ll hear nothing but the Peewit’s cry

And the sea talking in the caves below

I think it will be Winter when I die

For no one from the North would die in Spring

And all the heather will be dead and grey

And the bog-cotton will have blown away

And there will be no yellow on the wind

But I shall smell the peat

And when it’s almost dark I shall set my feet

Where a wild track goes glimmering to the hills

And see far up a light

Would you think heaven could be so small a thing

As a lit window on the hills at night?

And come in stumbling from the gloom

Half blind into a fire lit room

Turn and see you and there abide

If it were true

And if I thought they would let me be

I almost wish it were

Tonight I died!

(Written by Helen Waddell)

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