Old Clara in grey fog was shrouded and the rain it was drizzling down
On the streets of people that were close to deserted from a sky that was gloomy and grey
On a chilly evening in December of a wintery Duhallow day
On the bus that was bound for the ferry that sails to Fishguard from Rosslare
On a journey that with many migrants past and present that i did share
The yearn of adventure was in me for the bigger World out there
Perhaps i was not born to die old in Duhallow my future was to live elsewhere
A journey that brought me to Victoria a state in the great Land of the far south
Far from the fields of the badger and the waterways of the brown trout
Of great achievements i am not one who has any stories to tell
But quite content for one in his seventies and feeling rather healthy and well
On the evening that i did leave Millstreet two months short of thirty five years ago
I was not what one would call a young fellow and time was becoming my foe.
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