The Boggeragh mountains old as time wear their winter hats of snow br And through quiet lands of Duhallow the old Blackwater flow br The leafless grove bereft of birdsong and bare looking the hedgerow br And from the cold north countries the icy cold winds blow. br br In cowshed in the farmyard the cows are bellowing for hay br Their appetites much keener on a frosty winter's day br And farmer feeling worried his cow fodder supply low br And two months yet or maybe more till grass commence to grow. br br In bare fields the migrant redwings they chirp but never sing br They sing their songs in their northern homes in mountain woods in Spring br And robins, thrushes and blackbirds by the back door compete br For after dinner scraps thrown out by housewife, bread crumbs and morsels of meat. br br I could tell of Springtime in Duhallow from early april on br The nesting birds are singing and winter's coldness gone br And grass growth near it's peak time and frogs croak in the drain br The memory of such beauty a whole lifetime remain. br br But it's Duhallow in mid january that I speak of today br When Boggeragh peaks are snow capped and frosty fields are gray br And rook with feathers fluffed against the cold caws on bare elm bough br For cold winter of snow, hail and storm is in Duhallow now. br br Through the bare fields of Duhallow Blackwater flow bank high br And the sun can't seem to penetrate through the heavily clouded sky br And the migrant redwing thrushes they chirp but never sing br And ten long weeks or maybe more before the blooms of spring.