DRESSOG'S HEATHERY BRAES

Let poets boast of glen and coast and lands where they were born,

Let authors write, of houses white by ivy green adorned.

No houses grand or foreign land do I intend to praise,

More dear to me, each bush and tree, round Dressog’s heathery brae.

The cool fresh air has no compare that o’er my mountains sweep,

Round green and boreen, raging fern, and ivy tendrils creep

And on every dell a sweet bluebell is sure to meet your gaze.

And daisies white like stars shine bright on Dressog’s heathery braes.

The singing thrush on every bush send forth its notes devine,

So pure and sweet your ear to greet it would charm both heart and mind,

And the lark takes wing to sweetly sing our great Creator’s praise,

And the moorcocks crow on the heath below , round Dressog’s heathery braes.

The primrose fair grows thickly there, in beauties unsurpassed,

Wild woodbines bloom, their sweet perfume is wafted on the blast,

The woodlands green round sweet Drumquin where the hare and pheasant strays

Present to you a pleasant view, from Dressog’s heathery braes.

Some people say that far away beyond the ocean blue,

There are scenes more grand in a foreign land, no doubt, that might be true,

But I intend my life to spend, where the summer sunbeams play

In the valleys green round sweet Drumquin, and Dressog’s heathery braes.