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Sometimes In Flights Of Fancy

Sometimes in flights of fancy my thoughts are far away
In the old fields by the river and the sweet scent of new mown hay
On a bright morning in August in the northern Summer-time
Such scenes of pastoral beauty have inspired the poets to rhyme.

For migrants to love their Homeland seems such a natural thing
As natural as birdsong in the prime months of the Spring
Whatever their reason for migrating their love for the Homeland dear
And they often sing the old song 'If we had the old Land here'.

Sometimes in flights of fancy I can hear the babbling rill
Winding it's way to the river when the moon shines on the hill
Through the old fields by the mountains far north as the crow might fly
Nostalgia is with the migrants until the day they die.

Sometimes in nostalgic moments I can hear the robin sing
And the young birds chirping in their nests in the green woods of the Spring
And in fancy I can hear the curlew pipe o'er the bog again
And the blackbird on the hedgerow sing to tell of wind and rain.

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