Michael Fortune, a proud Wexford man, celebrates his home with an evocative poetry tribute.

A poem has been written by a Wexford man,  in 2018, to celebrate his native county and all that is great about it. Irish people have memorialized their homes in searing poetry for the centuries and this is surely of the most evocative of recent years.

In his Facebook post, Michael Fortune wrote that this poem was written "in response to what shapes" the people of Wexford. "Their nature, the stories and the things that would normally never get a chance to shine or be celebrated."

And celebrate it he did.

Fortune also plans to a video performance of the poem using various voices and faces of people from County Wexford. If you'd like to be in with a chance to participate, check out his post below.

Here's the text of Fortune's poem:

We are Wexford of hill and say

We are the ones where you’ll get the tay

We are the people of true good nature

We are of heart, “ah musha, craythur”

We are home-made strawberry vans

We are boy, girl, horse and hun

We are “how’s it going son?”

We are the closest to Shakespeare’s tongue

We are “ah stop lad, that’s some hot”

We are the place that the rest forgot

We are the home of the Wexford spud

We are owners of “that's quare good”

We are the men of the Macamores

We are descended from those Vikings “hoors”

We are of Strongbow and Le Gros

We are the mongrel sons of Doyle and Roche

We are of beach and forgotten strands

We are Frocken Sunday and ice cream vans

We are the sticks that the Mummers bang

We are Tone and Father Murphy’s men

We are the spot where St. Patrick landed

We are lads on phones, on big tractors

We are Planters from King William’s time

We are Norman towers with washing lines

We are strawberry pickers, each woman and man

We are traveller, and caravan

We are of ancient song and story fame

We are gammon “whidders”, “crush on feen”

We are the place where the magpie landed

We are from where JFK descended

We are the Whalens of Talamh an Éisc

We are the gringo shepherds of Buenos Aires

We are last of the east coast Gaels

We are the natives that didn’t sail

We are those who won’t lie down

We are the croppies that took on the crown

We are the Rackards and Tony Doran

We are the ditches where the ash was grown

We are broken hurls of different sizes

We are drive-in-bingos and games of 45

We are of the bow and the raheen

We are of things that were never seen

We are of Holy Wells and May Bushes

We are Dub caravans hidden in dunes and rushes

We are the vizzards on Hallowe’en

We are the blaggards that’ll make you scream

We are the Wedding Fool and the Christmas Mummer

We are the heat of a Wexford summer

We are the ones that you overtake

We are the head light flashers,that make you brake

We are of Bunclody and Taghmon,

We are rissoles, “battered or breadcrumbed, hun?”

We are the herrin’ men of Cahore

We are the mackerel catchers from Carnsore

We are the Polish girl in Lidl and Aldi

We are Roma fruit pickers from Enniscorthy

We are far from bended knee,

We are Wexford, true and free

We are of a story yet untold

We are the people, of the purple and gold.

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