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Old Hibernia Again

I may never see old Hibernia again
Or walk in her fields in the wind and the rain
Or in the chilly dawn hear the caw of the gray crow
When the old hill is wearing his cold hat of snow
In my flights of fancy I hear the fox cry
In the field by the hill when the moon's in the sky
Or in Spring hear the lark carolling as upwards he flies
It's not very hard at all to visualize
The birds one can recognize by their call or their song
And the flute of the curlew one cannot get wrong
The call of the nocturnal barn owl is more like a scream
And at daybreak the dipper he sings in the stream
That flows to the river from old Claramore
That flows to the ocean of Hibernia's shore.

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