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The Migrant He Is Never Far

In the high field by the old hill he fancy he can hear
The hunting red fox barking loud five days and nights from the New Year
Millions of stars in the night sky the moon is full and round
In his heart the migrant never far from his beloved Homeground.

The migrant he is never far from the old mountain rill
That babbles to the river down the high field by the hill
Or from the grove by the old home where all through the days of Spring
The chaffinch and the robin and the pink breasted bullfinch sing.

The migrant he is never far from his beloved Hometown
Where he was known on every street when he walked up and down
And someone would call him by his name and smile and say hello
But many Seasons have passed since for that was moons ago.

The migrant he is never far from the old furzy glen
Where the grey badgers have their sett remote from the homes of men
In his heart he is never far from home each time he visualize
He hear again the skylark carol in the Homeland skies.

O'er the rushy field by the bog in Spring all through the night
With his wings and tail the male snipe makes a goat like sound his mating call in the moonlight
And the migrant in his heart never far from home though he lives far away
From the old fields near the old Town where he first saw light of day.

by Francis Duggan

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