Monday, September 27, 2010

I've Not Walked In The Old Fields

I've not walked in the old fields for many a day
Of the Townland I was born and raised in from here far away
Claraghatlea scarce a mile from the Town of Millstreet
Where the rivers the Finnow and the Cails do meet.

In a damp rushy field that is known as the Lyre
They join with a babble that never seems to tire
And together journey to Drishane by many a ditch and hedgerow
Where into the mighty Blackwater they flow.

In a river side field where the rank rushes grow
In fancy I can hear the male pheasant crow
When hawthorns are in their white blooms of the May
Time may have ticked on but the memories stay

Of little brown lark carolling as he did fly
A musical speck in the clouds of the sky
His descendants today sing the very same song
That is born in their kind and to them belong.

Till the Reaper comes to claim the life's breath from me
A migrant in this Land is all that I can be
But good memories of what was with me do remain
And in my flights of fancy I go home again.

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