Along by the brown hedgerows by Winter winds stripped bare
The coldness of late February is in the morning air.
The water is flowing bank high in river, stream and drain
And dark clouds above the mountain give promise of more rain
Yet on the naked birch tree the territorial robin sing
Despite the Wintery weather he senses the coming Spring.
Of Ballydaly in late February the memories remain
In my nostalgic flights of fancy I walk the old fields again
Across the bare and wet and frosted fields the freshening cold winds blow
Yet the frost resistant daisies bloom where grass refuse to grow.
In quiet old Ballydaly in late February of the year
The wild cries of the hunting fox in the moonlit fields one hear
Her cubs too old to suckle and too young to hunt in their den are crying for meat
A rabbit, hare, pheasant or chicken they would feel glad to eat.
From the lake in Kippagh mountain the stream through the bracken flow
And bank high it babbles it’s way Inland down by the bare hedgerow
Yet the robin he is singing on a cold and wintery day
And from old Ballydaly Spring cannot be far away.