And Yet In Fancy

In fancy i can hear the male pheasant crow
In the damp field by the river where rank rushes grow
And i can hear old Cails the one with the murmuring song
By dykes and hedgerows babbling along
In Claraghatlea where few nowadays I'd know
The grass growing winds of early April blow
And the robin's song is melodious and clear
He sings his finest at this time of year
In Millstreet Town a stranger i might be
Few nowadays there would even know of me
But many of the old fields i knew perhaps would look the same
Some of them even had a given name
And yet in fancy i can hear the rill
Go babbling down the high field by the hill.