Explore "Songs of The Glens of Antrim" by Moira O´Neill on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
He was born in Ballytearim, where there' little work to do, / An' the longer he was livin' there the poorer still he grew; / Says he till all belongin' him, "Now happy may ye be! / But I'm off to find me fortune," sure he says, says he.
"All the gold in Ballytearim is what's stickin' to the whin; / All the crows in Ballytearim has a way o' gettin' thin." / So the people did be praisin' him the year he wint away, -- / "Troth, I'll hould ye can do it," sure they says, says they.