Old stones turned over by the river,
Flowing on down from the highland spring,
Upon the aul yonder hill.
Old stones chipped free from the hillside,
Hefted by weathered hands, shouldered by wiry bodies,
Lugging the walls home.
Old stones set firm in place,
Building village walls and marking village plots,
A world of grey, granite rock.
Old stones battered hard,
By the howling winds of Atlantic gales,
Sheltering the fireside stories.
Old stones witness,
Thatch roofs tumbling down on hungry heads,
Down, down, down.
Old stones rough beneath my palm,
Long dead, thick with moss and tall grasses now,
The bones of my people.