On The Last Time I See Old Claramore

On the last time I see old Claramore
Bare were the fields and the trees and hedgerows
And chilly winds were blowing from the north
The winds that bring the sleety rains and snows.

And old Clara wore his hat of winter white
And hungry cows were bellowing for hay
And songbirds silent on the windblown trees
And only crows cawed at noon of the day.

On the last time I see old Claramore
The little rill bank high flowed muddy brown
And nine years and nine months have crept on by
Since I see high fields west of Millstreet Town.

Old Claramore doesn't always look so bare
In spring and summer it is lush and green
From the high fields there is a scenic view
And miles of marvellous country to be seen.

I've heard the kookaburras laugh at dawn,
The currawongs pipe on the tall gum trees
And magpie's voice re-echo all year round
And carries in the freshening mountain breeze.

And I feel happy where I live today
As happy as I've ever felt before
But I retain the memory with me still
Of when last I saw the fields of Claramore.