Song Of A Sentimental Fellow

I'm always with the underdog though age has made me mellow
And I have been described at times as a sentimental fellow
I don't admire the powerbrokers the big wheels of the city
My sympathies are with the poor the poor alone I pity.

I'm still a country boy at heart I never left the wild wood
And despite the gray that years only bring I'm still stuck in my childhood
In the quietness of Mountleader wood the wren's high notes are ringing
And chaffinch with the bright pink breast on the silver birch is singing.

The fog creeps over Clara hill a sign of rainy weather
And skylark for to spread his wings rise from a clump of heather
And song that slept through Winter cold in his small heart awaken
And singing singing as he soar his voice can't be mistaken.

The mental pictures that I keep when looked at now are clearer
And Sliabh Luachra and the Paps of Shrone once far off now seem nearer
In corner of the rushy field the shy cock pheasant crowing
And wildflowers in their billions bloom and grass growing winds are blowing.

The currawong's song in Selby wood it keeps me to the present
And crimson rosella's flute like notes are now as always pleasant
And Mother Nature is my god her wild things give me pleasure
I walk the path through sunlit wood in hours of ease and leisure.

I once was a temperamental sort but the years have made me mellow
And now I am a different man a sentimental fellow
And I don't admire the wealthy few who control the big city
My sympathies are with the poor and the poor alone I pity.