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glentieswindfarminfo
Turbine Lament
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 . . . Complete article »
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