In Flights Of Nostalgic Fancy

In flights of nostalgic fancy I see them every day
Those old hills of my younger years far north and far away
Overlooking the green countryside to memory I recall
Too high and rough for men to plough them they haven't changed at all.

Above the morning fog that shrouds them the lark carols as he fly
In his song a wild beauty 'tis a natural thing of joy
And the horned mountain sheep I hear them bleating where some might die they survive
They are bred for the high and rough places where in Spring and Summer months they thrive.

In that far northern country the Summer is in her prime
By those mountains of my childhood that inspired the bards to rhyme
You take the man from the mountain but the mountain in him stay
And the migrant from distant mountains is still a mountain man today.

To those old hills far north of here the Seasons come and go
In that green and peaceful countryside where the Blackwater flow
On it's journey through Duhallow it babbles deep and slow
Through the old fields and by woodlets and by many a hedgerow.