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38 IT'S A FAR, FAR CRY
My heart is sick of the level lands,
Where the wingless windmills be, Where the long-nosed guns from dusk to dawn
Are speaking angrily ; But the little home by Glenties Hill,
Ah ! that's the place for me.
A candle stuck on the muddy floor
Lights up the dug-out wall, And I see in its flame the prancing sea
And the mountains straight and tall ; For my heart is more than often back
By the hills of Donegal.