By The Araglen Waters

At a time of year when grass refuse to grow
The Boggeragh Hills in their white hats of snow
And the cold winds of January from the northlands do blow
In bare fields of Duhallow where the Araglen flow

From it's distant birthplace it journeys on down
Swollen by heavy rains in flood waters of brown
On towards the Blackwater it babbles along
The old river that has inspired story and song

At temperatures of zero or a degree or two of it below
The cattle in farm shed for fodder bellow
In the cold of mid morning the harsh cawing of gray crow
And migrant redwings are chirping on the windswept hedgerow

Ten weeks maybe more from the warmth of the Spring
When the birds of Duhallow commence to nest and sing
And the swallows are home from warm climes far away
For to build their mud nests on shed rafters in May

When the old fields made lush and green by mild April showers
Are looking resplendent in their Nature's flowers
And cattle out on young grass gaining weight by the day
By the Araglen waters from here far away.