Forget you not the Mass Rock that made us what we are,
That nurtured us through slavery, through famine and through war,
Where our forbears gathered, sustained by Faith alone,
Ragged, brogue less, hungry, by an altar made of stone.
No grand hosannas here were sung, no hymns of joyous praise,
Just the creatures of the hedgerows heard their Paters and Aves.
Humbly knelt they on rain soaked ground, the despised and the oppressed,
Until a hunted priest in tattered cloak whispered, "Ite missa est".
Forget you not the Mass Rock, lest you forget your race,
The nameless ones who worshipped here, ourselves in tongue and face.
When the mighty Shannon ends its flow and Carrauntohil is just a hill,
May the glory of the Mass Rock be on and in us still.
(Author unknown)