I wish I was on Slemish Mountain
Hot heathers scents in my hair
With Hares and Ravens around me
Looking out from St Patrick’s Chair

On here they once set bonfires
Celebrating the New Year’s birth
But church and other oppression
Have ended that traditional mirth

The faeries have all been forgotten
The great mound no longer holds sway
I miss the old magic and mysteries
And the passing of the elders hey-day

Now there is a car park and pathway
And the mountain is barely a hill
And people climb it in high heels
Never hearing the larks pitched shrill

I wish I was on Slemish Mountain
Feeling the wind strip me to the bone
With eagles and St Patrick’s spirit, to
Remind me that this county’s home.