Will I ever again see Caherbarnagh or Gortavehy and his face of stone
Though I fancy from the foot of Clara I can see the old Paps of Shrone
That rise towards the skies of East Kerry not that distant from Rathmore Town
In Sliabh Luachra the home of traditional musicians and of legends of literary renown.
Will I ever again see Duhallow and the fields where the Blackwater flow
Back there now I might feel a stranger and few of me would even know
Since I last lived there a new generation into young adulthood have grown
The old home place migrants never forget the past we should never disown.
Will I ever again hear the dipper singing in the clear mountain stream
The beautiful song of the chaffinch last night came to me in a dream
To the old fields to me once familiar the Seasons they come and they go
In the late Fall the redwings from the north migrate to them
when their home woods are covered in snow.
Will I ever again see old Clara above the fields of Claramore
Above his face of bracken and heather the larks in their nesting season soar
To carol above their nesting grounds up to the gray cloud world they fly
As for me I may well have my long rest far from the fields under the northern sky.
Though I fancy from the foot of Clara I can see the old Paps of Shrone
That rise towards the skies of East Kerry not that distant from Rathmore Town
In Sliabh Luachra the home of traditional musicians and of legends of literary renown.
Will I ever again see Duhallow and the fields where the Blackwater flow
Back there now I might feel a stranger and few of me would even know
Since I last lived there a new generation into young adulthood have grown
The old home place migrants never forget the past we should never disown.
Will I ever again hear the dipper singing in the clear mountain stream
The beautiful song of the chaffinch last night came to me in a dream
To the old fields to me once familiar the Seasons they come and they go
In the late Fall the redwings from the north migrate to them
when their home woods are covered in snow.
Will I ever again see old Clara above the fields of Claramore
Above his face of bracken and heather the larks in their nesting season soar
To carol above their nesting grounds up to the gray cloud world they fly
As for me I may well have my long rest far from the fields under the northern sky.
