I hear the dunnock piping on high bush in hedgerow
And o’er the lush green meadows swallows fly to and fro.
In the poems of Ned Buckley the shy cock pheasant crow
And the song of the corncrake comes from the long ago
And across the fields and valleys the grass growing breezes blow
And the dipper he is singing where the stream rapids flow.
In the poems of Ned Buckley links to the past survive
And in his songs and verses the bard is still alive
He belong to an era Sliabh Luachra’s golden time
And in his beloved Village the last great man of rhyme.
In the annals of Sliabh Luachra you will find Ned Buckley’s name
And his verses are still living his was not a fleeting fame
And his poems are still recited far from his own countryside
And from the Cork and Kerry border his fame spread far and wide.
In the verses of Ned Buckley flowers and roses are in bloom
And his sunlit fields and meadows scent of Nature’s sweet perfume
And the linnet he is singing on the flowering hawthorn tree
And the redpoll and the chaffinch pipe in woods of Knocknagree

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