'Tis said that the milk of the young thistle for ailments has a cure
They are to be found in the Spring in the fields of Annagloor
When Nature's countless wildflowers in their billions are seen
In fields and by hedgerow and on ditch by bohreen.
The hungry nestlings of the great tit chirp in the stone wall
They keep their parents busy bringing food to them though pink, naked and small
And pink breasted male chaffinch on the silver birch sing
His is a familiar voice of the northern Spring.
On the banks of the river that through Shannaknuck flow
Golden buttercups and snowdrops fresh and as white as snow
Are nodding to and fro in the freshening breeze
On a cool and cloudy day under twenty degrees.
Though separated by distance and separated by time
By those old fields I often was inspired to rhyme
But the years have left me older and looking more gray
And the old face of Clara from me seems further away.
The song of the dipper echoes in the rill
That flows to the river down the grassy hill
And in the leafy woodland the birds sing all day
And the nestlings of April will be flying in May.
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