The Migrant

The lark he is carolling in the gray morning sky
He shrinks to a small speck as upwards he fly
Till lost to view in the clouds though one still can hear him sing
The wonder of Nature is a beautiful thing.

The migrant she thinks of her Townland far away
The lush valley where she first saw light of day
In June when the meadows were full of wildflowers
Blooming after rain in the warm Summer hours.

The wanderlust in her she left at nineteen
When the flowers of the Summer bloomed by the bohreen
She has not been back home though nine years have gone by
And though still in her prime how the time seems to fly.

Married to a thirty year old Aussie married life she enjoy
With a four year old daughter and a three year old boy
Though nostalgia off and on visit her at this time time of year
And in fancy the song of the dipper she hear.

Though the accent she brought with her with her to stay
In this land the migrant will grow old and gray
And though she may visit her Homeland again
With her husband and children she is bound to remain.