And I Still Miss The Fields Of Annagloor

Some people have this inborn yearn for travel
For wanderlust there is not any cure
But I still envy all those stay at home types
And I still miss the fields of Annagloor.

The robin piping early in the morning
By the old home high on the cypress tree
And the pheasant cuck in the rank grass by the hedgerow
His voice you hear though the bird you seldom see.

The distinct voice of the cuckoo in the woodlet
The migrant bird back home from far away
And swallows o'er the old fields fly and twitter
And flowers and blossoms beautify the May.

Above the rushy flat field by the river
The little lark a small speck in the sky
Till gone from sight to cloud world he is nearing
And singing ever singing as he fly.

Many people live far distant from their homeplace
In the big cities miles beyond the seas
Many of them of course voluntary migrants
Whilst others from their homelands refugees.

For self betterment I left Millstreet in Duhallow
Though I am still considered to be poor
And still I envy all those stay at home types
And still I miss the fields of Annagloor.