Call This Migrant Nostalgia

The passing of time has left me wrinkled and gray And from where i was born and raised i am far away In this beautiful Country i may live my last night and day Call this migrant nostalgia or call it what you may Where i used to live when my hair was dark brown Today i would be a stranger to many near and in Millstreet Town And perhaps some young locals may well even say Who is this old stranger time worn and gray In fancy every day i walk in the fields where the waterways meet Or chat with old friends in the Town Park of Millstreet Or hear the babble of the silver tongued rill Flowing from the high fields by ancient Clara Hill It was my love of adventure that made a migrant of me But a bloke from Duhallow is the best i can be In my dreams from the slopes of Clara i see Gortavehy in it's face of stone And Goddess Anu's Breasts in Sliabh Luachra known as The Paps Of Shrone It is our gift of memory that links us to the past Yet the clocks on our lives ever keep ticking fast But the now is what matters and the past it has gone And Finnow the white river to the Blackwater keeps babbling on.