The Old Glasheen Rill

Through green Inchaleigh with tongue that's never still
It flows to the Finnow the old Glaseen Rill
The tiny waterway honoured in story and rhyme
Has babbled it's way through the centuries of time
Above the old fields in the sunny sky
The dark barn swallows do chirp as they fly
And the rooks sounding hoarse as if their throats were dry
In far away fields in the prime of July
And the lanky gray heron with dagger like bill
Is stalking the elvers in the Glasheen Rill
And robin is singing on leafy birch tree
In my flights of fancy such beauty i see
And in the gathering twilight the  soft lowing of a cow
Where the  old Glasheen Rill babbles to the Finnow.