From the high ground of Claramore the old rill gurgles down
Through flatter fields of Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And robin on the hedgerow sing his brief song of the Fall
And no mistaking the magpie by his hoarse and chattering call,
The wind from the cold Northlands it blows with a damp chill
And the low clouds only promise rain and the fog crawls down the hill
A cold and wet start to October the wind soughing in the trees
And a forecast high for the day of a cool thirteen degrees,
The first of Winter nearer with every passing day
And the swallows will soon be leaving for warmer climes far away
Mid Autumn in the Northlands and few wildflowers to be seen
And the fields are looking barer though they retain their green
And grass flattened by the river tell of where the floods have been
And a forecast low of seven and a cool high of thirteeen
Through flatter fields of Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And robin on the hedgerow sing his brief song of the Fall
And no mistaking the magpie by his hoarse and chattering call,
The wind from the cold Northlands it blows with a damp chill
And the low clouds only promise rain and the fog crawls down the hill
A cold and wet start to October the wind soughing in the trees
And a forecast high for the day of a cool thirteen degrees,
The first of Winter nearer with every passing day
And the swallows will soon be leaving for warmer climes far away
Mid Autumn in the Northlands and few wildflowers to be seen
And the fields are looking barer though they retain their green
And grass flattened by the river tell of where the floods have been
And a forecast low of seven and a cool high of thirteeen
