I may never climb to Clara's Cross again
Or hear the birds sing in the drizzling rain
Near prime of Spring in grove and on hedgerow
When soft winds of April in the old fields blow
Only in fancy i climb high fields of Claramore
Miles inland from Hibernia's windswept shore
Time ticking on i show my years in gray
Far south of where i first looked on lamp of day
Where years ago i used to daydream i might be a poet
One seen to be as worthy of literary note
But daydreams for most not known to come true
What life does give us has to be our due
A place that once did mean so much to me
Old Claraghatlea i never more may see
I live in the now and the past forever gone
And the biological clock as ever ticking on
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