Perhaps i may never more see the grey fogs of rain
Roll acroos the face of old Clara again
Or hear a pink breasted male chaffinch on an evening in Spring
High on a leafy birch tree his familiar song sing
It has been thirty fouir years in time quite a span
Since i left the green place where i grew to a man
All i have now are memories of the long ago
And time that ages all life has become my foe
In fields of Claraghatlea with a tongue that is never still
I memorize the babble of the Claramore rill
Though good memories of them live in me today
From the old fields i loved i live far away
And of my many walks on evenings in May
When the wild birds were singing in the twilight grey.
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