In The Meadows And Fields Where The Blackwater Flow

A little of living and life I do know
And I've seen many Seasons and years come and go
And my legs once so sprightly seem heavy and slow
Since I lived where the great river Blackwater flow

Through fields of Duhallow by wood and hedgerow
And through dry fields and wet fields where rank rushes grow
On it's way towards Mallow through green old Banteer
It's rough and loud babble I fancy I hear.

What hair I've got left is gray 'twas once darkish brown
And I would be a stranger now in my Hometown
And for my years of absence I don't have much to show
from North Cork in Duhallow where the Blackwater flow.

By the woodlet in June where the thrush pipes his song
The timeless old waters they babble along
A mass of white flowers on the hawthorn tree
And memories of the past keep returning to me.

A new generation into young adults have grown
Grandchildren of schoolboys and schoolgirls I've known
When I was a boy many decades ago
Back in old Duhallow where the Blackwater flow.

by Francis Duggan

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