And on shed rafters build mud nests lined with feathers, straw or hay
And lay white eggs with reddish spots from the second week of May.
And in the grove on silver birch the male chaffinch will sing
But dark haired Katie from Rathmore won’t be going home this Spring
She says this Spring I won’t hear the lark pipe in Sliabh Luachra’s skies
But his song fresh in my memory and I can visualize.
Last year I was in Rathmore Town to toast St Patrick’s Day
And Rathmore is still home to me though I live far away
From all those who are dear to me my kin and family
But I left for my self betterment and I did what’s right for me.
She says she may go home next year and Rathmore will still be there
And the Paps those ancient peaks at Shrone won’t have moved to elsewhere
She doesn’t expect to witness change in her Hometown of Rathmore
A few years never bring much change things almost as before.
A woman in her twenties from Sliabh Luachra’s Rathmore Town
Sliabh Luachra once a cultural place for centuries knew renown
And though east Kerry of the ancient hills it’s old beauty retain
The memories of a glorious past are all that now remain.
I will go home again next year the dark haired Katie say
When songbirds sing and wild flowers bloom in April if not May
And watch the migrant swallows home from a distant shore
Fly o’er the fields and meadows by the old Town of Rathmore.