|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
Those lovely summer evenings we wandered up the hill,
Instead of joyful peace and quiet, continuous hiss and roar,
For private wealth they increase our debt and consign us to slavery.
In the final verse of olden songs we’d always a ‘but and so’,
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