Above the brown bogland he pipes as he fly
The song of the curlew in the morning sky
Once heard unmistakeable so flute like and clear
In that old green Country many miles north of here.
The song of the curlew a beautiful thing
A familiar voice of the Northern Spring
It echoes so sweetly in the still morning air
Of his breeding borders he makes his own kind aware.
His wife lay her eggs by bog hole on damp ground
In a place where bog cotton and bracken abound
Four blotched brown cream coloured eggs the nest hard to be found
The female's drab colours blend well with the vegetation around.
The song of the curlew is a beautiful song
One cannot mistake the bird to whom the voice belong
Above the brown bogland he fly as he sing
When the old fields are dressed in their wildflowers of Spring.
The song of the curlew in the morning sky
Once heard unmistakeable so flute like and clear
In that old green Country many miles north of here.
The song of the curlew a beautiful thing
A familiar voice of the Northern Spring
It echoes so sweetly in the still morning air
Of his breeding borders he makes his own kind aware.
His wife lay her eggs by bog hole on damp ground
In a place where bog cotton and bracken abound
Four blotched brown cream coloured eggs the nest hard to be found
The female's drab colours blend well with the vegetation around.
The song of the curlew is a beautiful song
One cannot mistake the bird to whom the voice belong
Above the brown bogland he fly as he sing
When the old fields are dressed in their wildflowers of Spring.
