The Old Tongue
of the Fishermen

Its spoke no more on boggy field
By peasents who live under rooves of thatch
Who smoke piped tobacco and drink buttermilk
And prepare for eating their modest catch
And call it a feast fit for kings
When with potatoes it adornes a plate
With cabbage during the season
Each man solemnly does state
That seas so high are to be sailed
As mountains are there for men to climb
And god made the sea for men to sail
Are sure as he made the time.
A language lyrical spoken by all
Upon another day
A time before the days of now
All things are of a new way
But the sea still takes its toll
On the siple fishermen afloat
Beit a currach or a trawler tall
To the sea its but a boat.
The lapping of the waves the same
As are with high winds its mighty roar
The boats are different, better now
But the language's not spoken much anymore.

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