Old Hibernia Again

I may never see old Hibernia again Or walk in her fields in the wind and the rain Or in the chilly dawn hear the caw of the gray crow When the old hill is wearing his cold hat of snow In my flights of fancy I hear the fox cry In the field by the hill when the moon's in the sky Or in Spring hear the lark carolling as upwards he flies It's not very hard at all to visualize The birds one can recognize by their call or their song And the flute of the curlew one cannot get wrong The call of the nocturnal barn owl is more like a scream And at daybreak the dipper he sings in the stream That flows to the river from old Claramore That flows to the ocean of Hibernia's shore.