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.
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- by Winifred Mary Letts (1882 - 1972) [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Charles Villiers Stanford, Sir (1852 - 1924), "A fire of turf", op. 139 no. 1, published 1913, from A Fire of Turf, no. 1 [sung text checked 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Ted Perry
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 32
Word count: 197