The wilks were dark and slimy, as they slithered neath the sea, there
was not a soul at the wreck port only Hugh and me.
And for miles along that that cold bleak shore, without another soul
about, so Hugh and me stood on the rocks until the tide went out.
Way down there at low water, the rocks were dark and wet, and Hugh and
me picked up wilks , all that we could get.
We tipped them out from tin cans, and into potato sacks, and then we
hauled them up the rocks, on our young and weary backs.
Our shirts were soaked with salt water, our hands and feet were cold,
and I was just fourteen and Hugh was twelve years old.
My mother she needed the money, she said to buy the bread, so she made
us go and gather wilks, no matter what we said.
Sometimes we protested, when the days were dark and cold, but the
protests went unheeded, so we did what we were told.
When the cold east wind was blowing with darkness overhead, I, would
just be wishing that we could lie in bed to dream that maybe one day, we
would have bed clothes made of silk, but the reality of the moment was
we were off to gather wilks.
I'm glad those days are gone now, with poverty's grief and pain, I trust
that we will never, see such pinching times again. I'm glad they're
gone forever, those lean old days of yore, when Hugh and me we gathered
wilks along the Mourne shore.