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Only Memories Of What Was

Perhaps from the place i have been too long away
In the Claraghatlea i was raised in i would be a stranger today
Though many of the people i knew there to the forever gone
Life in the old Town-land as usual goes on
But i bet the old fields i loved would look much the same
Many of them i recall did have their given name
The sparrows under house eaves make their nests of hay
When the hawthorns are in their white blooms of the May
And the swallows are back from warm climes far away
Chasing flying insects above the old fields all the day
And in memory i can hear the babbling rill
On it's way to the river down the field by the hill
And though sometimes in fancy i walk in the old fields again
Only memories of what was with me now remain.

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