It may not be by Cashman’s Hill that my bones forever will lay
Since from the Millstreet I loved as a boy I now live some distance away
Though it will not matter to me where I will rest forever more
Billions of deceased migrants all over the World lay distant from their Homeland shore.
The bracken face of Clara Hill in fancy I only can see
And the fields of Claraghatlea by Claramore I keep as a fond memory
But the years have left me feeling tired to the father of time I do bow
And the past to forever has gone we live in the here and the now.
The song of the dipper in the stream grows fainter in my thoughts by the day
And I struggle for to visualize the fields in their wildflowers of May
And what of my friends of the past the years on them are taking toll
Old age it does come to us all things natural we cannot control.
I do hope for a peaceful end from life a quick painless release
But it may not be by Cashman’s Hill that my remains will rest in peace
The past from my life it has gone though in fancy to it I do cling
And often when I visualize in my thoughts the robin does sing.
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