In Late April Far Away

Above the old fields swallows fly to and fro And amongst the rank rushes the cock pheasant crow And nesting songbirds are piping in the woods all the day In Late April by the bracken hills far away, Bluebells, primrose and snowdrops bloom on ditch of bohreen And wildflowers in their billions in the fields to be seen And in fancy she can hear the babbling rill Flowing down to the river from the field by the hill The migrant does not find it hard to visualize Above the rank rushes she see the lark rise He carols so sweetly as upwards he does fly Till he becomes a small speck in the gray morning sky And the red breasted robin his finest song sing In his territory in the prime of the Spring.