In The Heart Of The Migrant

In fancy I hear the robin sing in the wind and the rain
And the wood by the old hill I do see again
And water bank high in the stream and the drain
And fresh in my memory the home fields remain.

A long way from here to Erin's green shore
And further inland to fields of Claramore
But in fancy I hear the birds sing every day
In woodlands and on hedgerows from here far away.

In the heart of the migrant nostalgia doesn't die
And those who tell you differently to themselves only lie
The hoarse cry of the gray heron and the babble of the rill
That flows to the river down the field by the hill.

And though what is past is past and forever has gone
Such things in the memory destined to live on
Of when we were young and lived far away
Our early love of Nature with us seem to stay.

The song of the dipper echoes in the stream
Old memories they linger in our thoughts it does seem
And the hawthorns resplendent in their white blooms of the May
Fond memories that never do seem to decay.