Where The Araglen Flow

Far north of this Land into men they did grow
Where old Araglen to the Blackwater does flow
The old village they have not seen for decades of years
But for the past they have shed all of their tears
Their chidren are Australians  by birthright
They never have heard the male snipe on a  Spring night
Above the bog with wings and tail in the moonlight
Making goat like bleating sounds in his courtship flight
In the local pub where they socalize they often recall
How in their club colours they played gaelic football
In the Duhallow Championship many Seasons ago
Before they migrated and time became their foe
And the passing of the Seasons left them walking slow
Far south of the fields where the Araglen flow.