In summer time I foot the turf
And lay the sods to dry;
South wind and lark's song,
And the sun far up in the sky.

I pile them on the turf stack
Against the time of snow;
Black frost, a gale from the north,
Who minds what winds will blow?

Now winter's here, make up the fire,
And let you bolt the door.
A wind across the mountains,
A draught across the floor.

I'll not be heeding cold or rain,
Or moaning of the wind;
With the turf fire, the hearth stone,
The notions in my mind.

I've seen a power of years itself
That's gone beyond recall;
The leaves of spring, the days of youth,
Where are they now at all?

The wither'd leaves lie in the glen,
The days of youth are dead;
Now it's long nights and long thoughts
While the sods o' turf glow red.

I see myself a barefoot child,
I see myself a lad,
When the gold upon the gorse bush
Was all the gold I had.

I do be having fine old dreams
Of days were long ago,
When the wind keens, the night falls,
And the embers glow.