But each time I hear the blackbird pipe my thoughts afar go winging
To the high wood by Clara hill where I heard his kin bird singing.
The non fishing kingfishers the kookaburras I hear them laughing daily
It’s a different World to from where I came from back home near Ballydaly
And yet I love this Southern Land for the warmth of the weather
The lark doesn’t sing now far away above the snow clad heather
That accent that I brought with me it never will forsake me
It will be with me till the end until the reaper take me
I feel it has not changed at all when heard on the tape recorder
It’s roots are far away from here on the Cork and Kerry border.
A migrant in this Southern Land I’m just one of the many
And I feel happy with my lot regrets I haven’t any
And though I’ve not gone back home in Spring like the migrant dark winged swallow
I’ll always be one from far north of here a rhymer from Duhallow