A Bungalow, of a Type Ubiquitous in Ireland

I rent a house in Ireland,
Of three hundred years or more.
From my window I can see
The omniscient mountain soar.

But a bungalow it blocks my view
Of fine green fields next door.
Its roof, its walls, bright lights at night:
Those farmers leave me sore.

Beyond the bungalow, I see
The mountain of this land.
She o’er looks the fields and
Knows old tales I’ll never understand.

My landlord told a story
How back in Eighty-Three
The humble home of folks next door
Burnt down, a tragedy.

The boys were nearly men then
And Mrs. Armstrong living here.
She gave them beds and shelter
All free for ’most a year.

The McGinleys got her kindness
And built another house.
And now it spoils my view of fields—
But I really shouldn’t grouse.

I also heard, when the boys were small,
Mrs. Armstrong saw their need.
She scraped into a bowl for them
Food her houseguests didn’t eat.

Beyond the bungalow, I see
The mountain of this land.
She o’er looks the fields and
Knows old tales I’ll never understand.