The passing of time has left me wrinkled and gray
And from where i was born and raised i am far away
In this beautiful Country i may live my last night and day
Call this migrant nostalgia or call it what you may
Where i used to live when my hair was dark brown
Today i would be a stranger to many near and in Millstreet Town
And perhaps some young locals may well even say
Who is this old stranger time worn and gray
In fancy every day i walk in the fields where the waterways meet
Or chat with old friends in the Town Park of Millstreet
Or hear the babble of the silver tongued rill
Flowing from the high fields by ancient Clara Hill
It was my love of adventure that made a migrant of me
But a bloke from Duhallow is the best i can be
In my dreams from the slopes of Clara i see Gortavehy in it's face of stone
And Goddess Anu's Breasts in Sliabh Luachra known as The Paps Of Shrone
It is our gift of memory that links us to the past
Yet the clocks on our lives ever keep ticking fast
But the now is what matters and the past it has gone
And Finnow the white river to the Blackwater keeps babbling on.
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