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The Old Fields Of Duhallow

The old fields of Duhallow for me a memory in decay
And what once was near and dear to me now seems so far away
In mid November the drains are full of water and the streams and rivers flooded to the brim
And the salmon against the heavy current upstream for to spawn swim.

The old fields of Duhallow with frost this morning gray
And blackbird on low branch of leafless ash his feathers fluffed to keep the cold away
And mavis in the windswept grove doesn't have a song to sing
So many cold and hungry days for him from here until the Spring.

The old fields of Duhallow in Spring are lush and green
And dandelions and buttercups and daisies in their billions to be seen
And bluebells, snowdrops and primroses bloom on bank by the bohreen
Great artists on their canvas try to preserve such a scene.

When those old hills of Duhallow wear their hats of early snow
The migrant redwing thrushes chirp on the bare hedgerow
And cattle in the farm yard sheds are bellowing for hay
And for the hard working farmer the Spring seems too far away.

The old fields of Duhallow as old as father time
Have seen myriads of Seasons come and go and inspired the old bards to rhyme
But what once was near and dear to me now seems so far away
And for me the big bird song of the tiny wren is a memory in decay.

by Francis Duggan

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