The Mournes -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I shall not go to heaven when I die. But if they let me be I think I'll take a road I used to know That goes by Slieve-na-garagh and the sea. And all day breasting me the wind will blow, And I'll hear nothing but the peewit's cry And the sea talking in the caves below. I think it will be winter when I die (For no one from the North could die in spring) And all the heather will be dead and grey, And the bog-cotton will have blown away, And there will be no yellow on the wind. But I shall smell the peat, And when it's almost dark I'll set my feet Where a white track goes glimmering to the hills, And see, far up, a light --Would you think Heaven could be so small a thing As a lit window on the hills at night?-- And come in stumbling from the gloom, Half-blind, into a firelit room. Turn, and see you, And there abide. If it were true, And if I thought that they would let me be, I almost wish it were tonight I died."
by Helen Waddell
The Mournes is a mountain range in Ireland.
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