Of The What Used To Be

In me the memories today do remain
Of the breeding frogs croaking in every field drain
And Clara half cloaked in the grey fogs of rain
Our mental images of the past a life time we retain

With a silver tongue that is never still
I hear the babbling of the Claramore rill
In Claraghatlea fields to the river winding it's way
It flows on forever by night and by day

In a rushy field in late Spring by old River Finnow
I hear the soft lowing to her calf of a cow
And as the shades of night envelope the sky
The male snipe from the rushes upwards does fly

And with his wings and tail makes a drumming sort of sound
As above his breeding territory he flies around
The past lives in us until the day we do die
For to believe any different would be to believe a lie

The old fields looking resplendent in their Nature's flowers
That have come to bloom after recent Spring showers
And the hawthorns cloaked in their white blooms of the May
Of the what used to be the memories do stay

In fancy in the leafy groves bird song i do hear
In late Spring and early Summer a lovely time of year
Of the what used to be the memories remain
And how nice for to walk on the old fields again.