The hill to success is quite steep and I'm not a good climber
And I don't yearn for wealth and fame I'm what you'd call a rhymer
And suppose I'll be writing rhymes until the reaper takes me
Until the god who sustains life will finally forsake me.
I had my dreams like everyone and my dreams I did follow
And things have not changed much for me since I left old Duhallow
I went to see the bigger world won't bore you with my story
And I cannot boast of success or fame or wealth or glory.
Where I come from far north of here there's little sunny weather
But in the cool wet days of spring the lark sings o'er the heather
And dipper's voice heard in the stream amidst the rapids ringing
And redbreast robin in the grove around his borders singing.
The kookaburra's harsh like call can never be mistaken
And here in this sunlit southern land my lust for rhyme awaken
And I will keep on penning rhymes until the reaper takes me
Until the god who sustains life will finally forsake me.
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