“The Lonely Irish Hillside”
by Peter McIntyre
(some reflections after visiting the Deserted Village, Achill Island, Co Mayo)
On a lonely Irish hillside
Along a winding mountain path,
Rows of ruined houses
Stand silently,
A haunting memorial
To a terrible past
People once populated this hillside,
These old stone walls
Were the pride and joy
Of Irish peasant stock.
These stones were simple homes,
Oh, if only stones could talk!
With the mountain to their back
And with the wild Atlantic on their face,
These people worked their humble bog,
Cutting turf for winter warmth,
Growing potatoes for hungry mouths,
Living for necessities never luxuries.
The dark winter settled on the Irish hillside,
The gales blew up from the ocean below,
The comfort of burning turf filled the air,
Grubby faces and ragged clothes
Betrayed a dire poverty,
Contentment was found in the simple potato.
I hear laughter on the Irish hillside,
I see barely clad children among the heather,
The women chatter aimlessly,
Old men tell old tales,
Young men talk of life beyond Ireland,
Oh, if only stones could talk!
Hundreds of people on a patch of Irish bog.
Look!
The very rigs where
They gathered the precious potato;
Whatever drove them
To this dreary hillside?
Too many people.
Too little land.
Unscrupulous landlords.
Impossible rents.
Brought them to this lonely hillside.
The simple life
On this Irish hillside
Was halted
By the great famine,
Oh, if only stones could talk!
I now see broken fathers,
The tears of stricken mothers,
I hear starved children crying,
The potatoes are rotten in their drills,
That pestilence, the terrible blight has come.
There is work but we are too sick;
There is money, what is money?
There is food, we cannot afford,
The potato is all we ever had,
The potato is gone, we are dying!
That lonely hillside
Is now a deserted village,
A sad and painful memorial
To the plight that brought them to this place,
And the horrors that emptied these homes of stone.