I Do Not Pine

I do not pine for the wet and frosty Northern Winter
When the cold gale down the bracken hill does roar
But I miss the greenery and the flowers of Springtime
When the birds sing in the high woods of Claramore

And I miss the bluebells blooming by the hedgerows
When the hawthorns wear their white blooms of the May
And I retain the ever pleasant memories
Of Springtime in the old fields far away

When the small brown lark above old Clara Mountain
Is ever singing upwards as he fly
His distinctive notes could never be mistaken
A musical speck in the gray evening sky.

In distant places I grew to love Nature
And from Nature we learn new things every day
In fancy I can hear the migrant cuckoo
And scent the sweetness of the new mown hay.

The past has gone but the mental pictures with me
Of primroses on the ditch of the bohreen
And Nature's wildflowers in the old fields blooming
When the countryside is looking lush and green.

I do not pine for frosty Winter mornings
When the old hills are in their white hats of snow
But often on my pleasant flights of fancy
In the rank rushes I hear the pheasant crow.