At the Foothills of Mushera the Winter days are cold
And the old mountain cloaked in fog a strange sight to behold
I felled pine trees there years ago when snow was on the ground
It surely was a hard old way for to earn one's living pound
But Spring brought joy to Mushera the birds sang all the day
And the hawthorn trees looked lovely in their white blooms of the May
And the cooing of the woodpigeons a pleasant sound to hear
And everywhere looked lush and green in the greenest time of year.
Above the heath and bracken the male brown lark did fly
And carolling whilst ascending like a small speck in the sky
Cloaked by a tuft of heather her speckled eggs warm beneath her breast
His silent female partner was sitting in her nest.
In January old Mushera wears his white hat of snow
In the woodland by his Foothills some two decades ago
I felled pine and spruce trees in the cold wind and rain
Those days for me long over but the memories of them with me remain.
And the old mountain cloaked in fog a strange sight to behold
I felled pine trees there years ago when snow was on the ground
It surely was a hard old way for to earn one's living pound
But Spring brought joy to Mushera the birds sang all the day
And the hawthorn trees looked lovely in their white blooms of the May
And the cooing of the woodpigeons a pleasant sound to hear
And everywhere looked lush and green in the greenest time of year.
Above the heath and bracken the male brown lark did fly
And carolling whilst ascending like a small speck in the sky
Cloaked by a tuft of heather her speckled eggs warm beneath her breast
His silent female partner was sitting in her nest.
In January old Mushera wears his white hat of snow
In the woodland by his Foothills some two decades ago
I felled pine and spruce trees in the cold wind and rain
Those days for me long over but the memories of them with me remain.
