Years ago in every southern Winter i said i would return to Ireland in Spring
In April when the wildborn birds build their nests and sing
And the cattle on nutritious young grass from months of eating silage and hay
Are looking contented and gaining weight by the day
When the old fields lush and green after the recent showers
Are looking resplendent in their Nature's flowers
And buttercups are blooming by the silver tongued rills
And young lambs around their mothers play on the high fields by the hills
Self promises it does seem far too hard to honour for me
Suppose Ireland in Spring i may never more see
I have not been to my home Country for thirty four years
But for the what used to be i have shed my last tears
Yet every winter to myself i do say
I would like to go back to see the flowers of May.
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