And ancient Clara Mountain did wear a hat of snow
Cattle in the farmyard sheds were bellowing for silage or hay
Feeling a bit more hungry than usual on a cold December day
The cold wind of the Boggeraghs soughed in the naked trees
On a cold and wet winter's morning of zero degrees
I boarded the bus in Millstreet Town for the ferry at Rosslare
A similar story to mine many migrants have to share
Since then thirty two years has gone by this does seem a long time
The babies born to life back then now past their physical prime
I have not been in Claraghatlea since all of those years ago
And time that does rust iron has since become my foe
And sadly like many migrants the nostalgia in me has died
For Millstreet and Claraghatlea my native countryside
And only the memories with me now remain
Of faces and places i may not see again
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