Ye bogs of Erin, what do ye hold
Stories from the past that have not been told
To be revealed in the future when peat lays bare
And the harvester sees what is laid there...
Maybe a body, maybe a book
What will be the motive of they who look
Will they for prosterity allow it so to remain
Or will they destroy for prosperity and gain?
Bogs of Erin, holder of butter
And roads and corpses who no longer mutter
The language of our forefathers who sacrificed you there
To appease the Gods, or of old borders to take care.
We walk across a keeper of history
And yet its only a source of fuel to others like me
We treat our bogs like our fellow men:
Use and abuse, and discard them again.
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