Atop the green hills
Of the Presbyterian land,
Stands a man who has
Grown old with the hills.
The eagle’s flight and the season fight
Are natures clock,
His culture, he has lost,
When decades were cold
When iron and steel
Dictated the stubborn.
He sings with a groan
In the language of his enemy,
His country has been
Robbed of tradition.
Malt whiskey burns
His old shallow heart
That paddles endlessly
Through the morning rain.
The native tongue
That few still speak
Is dying, an animal
To be extinct.
Each grey hair on his chin
As he cries in the wind,
Is for each year
His country has been a prison.
And when the poets wrote
Of the native plight,
They wrote for the
Acres that starved.
The Crown was the thief
As they cut at bare feet
And the new child that is born
Is born an orphan.