Or heard the babble of the Claramore rill
In Claraghatlea towards the big river winding it's way
It's silver tongue never silent by night or by day
In Millstreet Town where to many i used to be known
Most of the young people there now would not see me as one of their own
I have not been to Duhallow for thirty four years
And for the what used to be i have shed my last tears
In Spring i may never again hear the soft lowing of a cow
In the quiet of the twilight by old River Finnow
And above the rushy fields in the moonlit sky
Hear the male snipe make fast drumming like sounds as he fly
And only the memories today i retain
Of the old fields i may never walk on again.
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