It’s sixteen miles to Plumbridge town from flowery Ballinascreen,
But many’s the one has dandered there along Glenelly stream,
There’s good fish sporting in the stream, and flowery banks at hand,
And spread beauty on the same, are bushy meadows grand.
There’s heathery hills which stand hard by the little country road,
And by their side the people dwell in well arranged abodes,
And on those hills there’s food for game, and farm stock as well,
And through the summer there they roam, near where their owners dwell.
But winter yearly comes along, a time the farmers dead,
So cattle they are then tied in, with fodder at their heads,
And sheep to lower lands are brought, from off the heathery braes,
To browse on lower pastures, to about St. Patrick’s day.
In bleating flocks they then return, the season’s lamb to rear,
And dipping, clipping, guarding too, it is the farmer’s care,
The time of sale brings money in, the needful to provide,
And Sundays bring the farmers out, in all their dressy pride.
When all is for the winter planned, it is the farmers’ pride,
To sing their Songs, or tell their tales about the fireside,
The wireless it is turned on, the latest news to hear,
And so they gaily pass the time until another year.
George Barnett 