When I was young and stronger and perhaps at my prime
Before I like all of the others had to bow to father time.
To the old fields of Inchaleigh the Seasons come and go
And in the Spring and Summer days the shy cock pheasant crow
And songbirds singing in the groves just before the sun goes down
In the shadows of old Clara hill just out of Millstreet Town.
In the old fields of Inchaleigh on a calm July night
I heard the corncrake calling ‘crek crek’ in the moon light
But the earlier cutting of the grass their eggs and nests destroyed
And the familiar calls of the migrant rails in the fields of Millstreet died.
To the old fields of Inchaleigh in November in the Fall
The redwing thrushes arrived from further north and I can well recall
The buzzing sort of sound they made in the cold evening breeze
As they were settling for the night high on their roosting trees.