With this little book of poems in my hand happiness fills all of my heart; they were written a hundred years ago by a mountainy man living apart from the world we know today. He wrote of eagles and tinkers, of the land both fallow and tilled, of a loving and dying Christ and His happiness to us willed. He wrote of fighting his country’s cause; of fairs and wakes, of ploughing, reaping, fiddles ringing, fairies happily singing; yes, of all of the mountain lore from the peak to the ocean’s shore. Oh, my grand bard Seosamh MacCathmoil, your sweet singing has charmed my heart and nourished a wish for more!