The Man’s Home is the Hills

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.