Where The The Old Glasheen Rill

Through green Inchaleigh with tongue that's never still It flows to the Finnow the old Glaseen Rill The tiny waterway honored in story and rhyme Has babbled it's way through the centuries of time Above the old fields in the sunny sky The dark barn swallows do chirp as they fly And the rooks sounding hoarse as if their throats were dry In far away fields in the prime of July And the lanky gray heron with dagger like bill Is stalking the elvers in the Glasheen Rill And robin is singing on leafy birch tree In my flights of fancy such beauty i see And in the gathering twilight the soft lowing of a cow Where the old Glasheen Rill babbles to the Finnow.