An insect chirps in the meadow
Like a bicycle coming down the road,
I’m not afraid of the bumble bee,
The asses cry with their heavy load.
Mama’s shawl is warm,
Father’s pants are wide,
If ever I’m in trouble
I know where I can hide.
Uncle is mending a currach,
How I love the smell of the tar!
The lake at the end of the boreen –
Silvery as a star.
I like the cows black as turf,
That stream – no depth at all;
Sheep have dye–marks, blue and red,
Ponies never grow tall.