God bless the hills of Donegal, their days are nearly done,
For no more upon their heathered slopes will hare or rabbit run.
No more the stately stag shall stand, so straight and proud and tall,
But turbines sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
The majestic golden eagle, the falcon and the duck
Must fly elsewhere to obtain their fare, there’ll be nothing here but muck.
No honking geese, no whirring snipe, no grouse nor pheasant call,
But turbine sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
Those lovely summer evenings we wandered up the hill,
And oft times stopped to quench our thirst at many a mountain rill,
Are gone forever, lost in mire, locked gates and boundary wall,
And turbine sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
Instead of joyful peace and quiet, continuous hiss and roar,
Sleepless nights and fretful days, as the blades turn o’er and o’er.
Flickering lights and flying ice, as our property prices fall,
And turbine sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
For private wealth they increase our debt and consign us to slavery.
Every cent we earn, every ounce we burn, will finance their knavery.
In greasy tills, they’ve whored our hills, with no thought for life at all,
But turbines sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
In the final verse of olden songs we’d always a ‘but and so’,
But in this verse there’s no reverse, ’tis only death we’ll know.
The death of home and country, the death of hut and hall,
With turbine sores forevermore on the hills of Donegal.
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