Far south of Mushera and Caherbarnagh and the Paps of Shrone
And Clara and Gortavehy with the face of stone
From Claraghatlea in Millstreet on the road to Rathmore
My life's journey has taken me to this far Southern Shore.
In post famine days back in time quite a span
The exodus of people out of Ireland began
In any town or village or on any city street
A person from Ireland one is likely to meet.
Remote from the suburbs or the nearest big town
Many highways of the big Country I've driven up and down
Where the emu and wombat and roo does reside
In flat paddocks grazed bare by sheep that for miles stretch far and wide.
Far south of the green countryside by Clara Hill
Though in my flights of fancy I can hear the rill
Babbling down the high fields by ditch and hedgerow
As to the big river it hurriedly does flow.
Though near to my thoughts in distance miles away
I am living far south of Duhallow today
An ageing gray haired balding fellow in my life's Fall
Where few talk of Hurling or Gaelic Football.
And Clara and Gortavehy with the face of stone
From Claraghatlea in Millstreet on the road to Rathmore
My life's journey has taken me to this far Southern Shore.
In post famine days back in time quite a span
The exodus of people out of Ireland began
In any town or village or on any city street
A person from Ireland one is likely to meet.
Remote from the suburbs or the nearest big town
Many highways of the big Country I've driven up and down
Where the emu and wombat and roo does reside
In flat paddocks grazed bare by sheep that for miles stretch far and wide.
Far south of the green countryside by Clara Hill
Though in my flights of fancy I can hear the rill
Babbling down the high fields by ditch and hedgerow
As to the big river it hurriedly does flow.
Though near to my thoughts in distance miles away
I am living far south of Duhallow today
An ageing gray haired balding fellow in my life's Fall
Where few talk of Hurling or Gaelic Football.