Moonlit Bealac Hill

I fancy I can hear again the babble of the rill And the wild cry of the red fox on moonlit Bealac Hill At night upon the high ground where the het and bracken grow A landscape that never seems to change though the Seasons come and go. To the ancient Boggeragh Ranges near where I lived in years long gone And though people like the Seasons come and go life as usual goes on In fancy I hear the blackbird with the musical yellow bill In Spring as the moon begins to rise above old Bealac Hill. I often think of places far north of this Southern Shore The ancient Boggeragh Mountains between Millstreet and Rathmore And the harsh scream of the barn owl where the winds of night blow chill Above the moonlit high road of lonely Bealac Hill. The high road up to Bealac I may never climb again And hear the old rill babble in the wind and in the rain As it flows to meet the river with a tongue that's never still Down through the gorse and bracken of moonlit Bealac Hill.