I thought i was over nostalgia but bits of it in me remain
And in fancy the old face of Clara is obscured in the gray fogs of rain
And i can see the Finnow River bank high in flood waters of brown
Babbling on down from the high ground in the flat fields near Millstreet Town.
I thought i was over nostalgia but thought again has proved me wrong
In my mind that's full of old memories the male chaffinch often on song
And in a grove the robin singing on a balmy evening in Spring
It does seem to me that nostalgia can be an incurable thing
In Claraghatlea nowadays to many mine may be an old stranger's face
But i retain fond memories of there as one should of their first home-place
I left there in chilly December when Clara wore his hat of snow
And hungry blackbird scrope in the leaf litter for earth worms by the hedgerow.
I thought i was over nostalgia but in fancy i often do see
The migrant redwings eating the ripe red berries in December on the holly tree
I thought i'd get over nostalgia but now i know that cannot be
And the Claraghatlea of my young years will live till my dying day in me.