The Road To Barna Bog

The baby rosellas chirping in their nest hole high in a standing log
Far distant from Sliabh Luachra and the road to Barna Bog
The road she often walked on back in her younger years
Though for the past or what has been she doesn't have any tears.

The white backed magpie softly warbling on high branch of old gum tree
Far south of Gneeveguilla and Rathmore and Knocknagree
Far from the road to Barna Bog and the old rushy field
Where pipit in spring and summer sing and where grass to bracken yield.

She has lived in this country for fifty years and that's almost a life time
And her youngest grand child is in her late teens and her son and daughter well past their prime,
A divorcee in her seventies and as a divorcee she will die
She is not one of the many to give marriage one more try.

She may never walk on the narrow road that leads to Barna Bog again
And her fading memories of the past with her only remain,
The gray butcherbird in the sun shine pipes in his territory
So far south of Gneeveguilla and Rathmore and Knocknagree.