Perhaps those old fields would not have changed since I left them two decades ago
In Annagloor, Claraghatlea and Liscreagh where the Cails from Kippagh mountain flow
On it's way to the Finnow en route to the Blackwater flowing bank high swollen by heavy rain
Often in my wild flights of fancy I visit familiar places again.
The beautiful song of the robin the babble of the mountain rill
That winds it's way down to the river from it's home at the foot of the hill
Such things are not hard to imagine though in miles from me far away
When last I heard the dipper singing it only seems like yesterday.
The years have left me feeling weary and looking much older and gray
And though the past we often visit in the past we ought not to stay
For we only can live in the present and what once was is a memory
Though I fancy I can hear the river babbling on it's great journey to the sea.
Perhaps those old fields would not have changed though the clock of time it ticks on
In Claraghatlea I lived my best years though my best years one can say long gone
Where the Cails from Kippagh hill is flowing through old fields and by windswept hedgerow
In my memory the place it has not changed since I left there two decades ago.
In Annagloor, Claraghatlea and Liscreagh where the Cails from Kippagh mountain flow
On it's way to the Finnow en route to the Blackwater flowing bank high swollen by heavy rain
Often in my wild flights of fancy I visit familiar places again.
The beautiful song of the robin the babble of the mountain rill
That winds it's way down to the river from it's home at the foot of the hill
Such things are not hard to imagine though in miles from me far away
When last I heard the dipper singing it only seems like yesterday.
The years have left me feeling weary and looking much older and gray
And though the past we often visit in the past we ought not to stay
For we only can live in the present and what once was is a memory
Though I fancy I can hear the river babbling on it's great journey to the sea.
Perhaps those old fields would not have changed though the clock of time it ticks on
In Claraghatlea I lived my best years though my best years one can say long gone
Where the Cails from Kippagh hill is flowing through old fields and by windswept hedgerow
In my memory the place it has not changed since I left there two decades ago.
