After The Christmas, With The Help Of Christ, I Will Never Stop If I Am Alive; I Will Go To The Sharp-Edged Little Hill; For It Is A Fine Place Without Fog Falling; A Blessed Place That The Sun Shines On, And The Wind Doesn't Rise There Or Anything Of The Sort. And If You Were A Year There You Would Get No Rest, Only Sitting Up At Night And Forever Drinking. The Lamb And The Sheep Are There; The Cow And The Calf Are There, Fine Lands Are There Without Heath And Without Bog. Ploughing & Seed-Sowing In The Right Month, Plough And Harrow Prepared And Ready; The Rent That Is Called For There, They Have Means To Pay It. There Is Oats And Flax & Large Eared Barley. There Are Beautiful Valleys With Good Growth In Them And Hay. Rods Grow There, And Bushes And Tufts, White Fields Are There And Respect For Trees; Shade And Shelter From Wind And Rain; Priests And Friars Reading Their Book; Spending And Getting Is There, And Nothing Scarce. I Leave It In My Will That My Heart Rises As The Wind Rises, And As The Fog Scatters, When I Think Upon Carra And The Two Towns Below It, On The Two-Mile Bush And On The Plains Of Mayo. And If I Were Standing In The Middle Of My People, Age Would Go From Me And I Would Be Young Again.