He scratched his gray head whilst looking towards the hill saying what’s the point in complaining
The clouds o’er Clara looking full again it looks like raining.
As Con had predicted we see the Spring and when Winter days were over
the milk cows thin going out on grass gained weight on the lush clover
And the cuckoo’s voice was heard again and home again the swallow
And birds were singing all day long on the hedgerows of Duhallow.
Along the slopes of Clara hill the gray fog cloaked the heather
But we’ll live to see the Spring he said despite the rotting weather
And Con the Master one who knew he had lived through many a Season
And for all of the talk of the hard days ahead he could not see a reason.
The weather settled in mid Fall and stayed fine till December
And ‘we will live to see the Spring’ those words I still remember
The meadows smelt of rotting hay and the farmers were forecasting disaster
But all of their talk of doom and gloom did not worry Con the Master.