I have not been to my first home-place for twenty nine years
And for the what used to be i have shed my last tears
But on my flights of fancy the Claramore rill
Babbles towards Claraghatlea down the fields by the hill
Where mine years ago was a familiar face
Today i would be a stranger to many in my first home-place
And with only mental images of them to retain
So many i knew i will not see again
The boys and girls of the fifties have known a better day
And some of them where the deceased are now lay
Time that does not wait for anyone did not wait for me
But on my flights of fancy i often do see
Old Clara half cloaked in the gray fogs of rain
The past may be gone but the memories remain.
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