I Was Boy Of The Fifties

Above the brown mountain bogland skylark carols in the sky
And the soft piping of the curlew is always a thing of great joy
Spring is approaching the old Land closer with each passing day
And the wild birds will be nesting in March and April and May.

Amongst the rank grass by the hedgerow the hen pheasant on her eggs will lay
Always quite hard to discover devoted to duty she stay
And the to be father of her chickens amongst the high rushes crow
One of Nature's absent fathers his children he never will know.

I do not look to the future and yet I cling to the past
Though the old memories are fading few things in life seem to last
To the old fields of my boyhood the Seasons they come and they go
Soon on the bank of the bohreen in the wind the wild bluebells will blow.

Swallows above the old valley they chirp and sing as they fly
In my brief moments of fancy I am again a young boy
When the leaves come to the woodland pink breasted chaffinch he sings all day long
His voice cannot be mistaken as his is a distinctive song.

I was a boy of the fifties many Springs since have gone by
Far north of this warm southern Country even as the crow might fly
But only Mother Nature lives forever I have grown older and gray
And the past now is just an old memory an old memory fading away.

by Francis Duggan

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