In the bogs of Claraghatlea North just west of Millstreet Town
The hare sits in the rushes in her coat of chestnut brown
Of man with gun and man's dog and fox she lives her life in fear
And her's is never a deep sleep as she rests with one pricked ear
In the bogs of Claraghatlea North sunday hunts I used to enjoy
With Pudsy our brown cattle dog when I was a young boy
She often flushed and chased a hare but by the hare she always was outrun
What nowadays by many is frowned upon back then to me was fun
That was back in the fifties some five decades ago
In the bogs of Claraghatlea North near where Cails and Finnow flow
The boy into a man grew and time ticks on so fast
And only the good memories of what was seem to last
Poor Pudsy in her long rest she was a tough old dog
She often chased a brown hare in Claraghatlea bog.
The hare sits in the rushes in her coat of chestnut brown
Of man with gun and man's dog and fox she lives her life in fear
And her's is never a deep sleep as she rests with one pricked ear
In the bogs of Claraghatlea North sunday hunts I used to enjoy
With Pudsy our brown cattle dog when I was a young boy
She often flushed and chased a hare but by the hare she always was outrun
What nowadays by many is frowned upon back then to me was fun
That was back in the fifties some five decades ago
In the bogs of Claraghatlea North near where Cails and Finnow flow
The boy into a man grew and time ticks on so fast
And only the good memories of what was seem to last
Poor Pudsy in her long rest she was a tough old dog
She often chased a brown hare in Claraghatlea bog.
