It Is Only In Fancy I See Clara Hill

It is only in fancy i see Clara Hill
And hear the babble of the silver tongued rill
That flow down the high fields of green Claramore
At the start of it's journey to the Atlantic Shore.

I do recall Winters of storm, rain, frost and snow
But in April's milder weather grass commenced to grow
And the hawthorns looked resplendent in their white blooms of the May
And the nesting birds chirped and sung through the day.

The song of the dipper i can visualize
He sings in the river even before sunrise
And the tiny brown bird who has the big bird song
The voice of the wren one could never get wrong.

In the Claraghatlea fields wildflowers bloom after rain
Where the voice of the cuckoo can be heard again
And the dark winged swallows are low in the sky
In pursuit of flying insects they chirp as they fly.

The clock on my life it is ticking on fast
And it is only in fancy i go to the past
On a leafy birch tree the male robin sing
On a beautiful day in the prime of the Spring.