The Old Fields Of Inchaleigh

In the old fields of Inchaleigh where Finnow waters flow The hunting foxes bark all night as they did years ago When I was young and stronger and perhaps at my prime Before I like all of the others had to bow to father time. To the old fields of Inchaleigh the Seasons come and go And in the Spring and Summer days the shy cock pheasant crow And songbirds singing in the groves just before the sun goes down In the shadows of old Clara hill just out of Millstreet Town. In the old fields of Inchaleigh on a calm July night I heard the corncrake calling 'crek crek' in the moon light But the earlier cutting of the grass their eggs and nests destroyed And the familiar calls of the migrant rails in the fields of Millstreet died. To the old fields of Inchaleigh in November in the Fall The redwing thrushes arrived from further north and I can well recall The buzzing sort of sound they made in the cold evening breeze As they were settling for the night high on their roosting trees.