As a young man as a writer of success I did daydream
And I sang of the white breasted dipper who used to sing in the stream
That by the grove near my old home to the river did flow
When youth and time was on my side some three decades ago.
The thought that as a writer I'm not good enough not good for my self esteem
But with the thought of failure I must learn to live for such is life 'twould seem
For years and years of scribbling stuff I do not have much to show
And I feel poorer now than I was then but at least I had a go.
The stuff I pen not good enough and my better years long gone
Yet a tiny voice within me says you must keep on penning on
I never did become famous though I used to dream of fame
And like many more writing for me is a 'hungry belly game'.
I live a long way south of Claraghatlea and the fields of Claramore
And a long way south of Millstreet Town and Hibernia's windswept shore
I suffer of a penning addiction of that why should I lie
And perhaps I'll be penning stuff until the day I die.
And I sang of the white breasted dipper who used to sing in the stream
That by the grove near my old home to the river did flow
When youth and time was on my side some three decades ago.
The thought that as a writer I'm not good enough not good for my self esteem
But with the thought of failure I must learn to live for such is life 'twould seem
For years and years of scribbling stuff I do not have much to show
And I feel poorer now than I was then but at least I had a go.
The stuff I pen not good enough and my better years long gone
Yet a tiny voice within me says you must keep on penning on
I never did become famous though I used to dream of fame
And like many more writing for me is a 'hungry belly game'.
I live a long way south of Claraghatlea and the fields of Claramore
And a long way south of Millstreet Town and Hibernia's windswept shore
I suffer of a penning addiction of that why should I lie
And perhaps I'll be penning stuff until the day I die.
