Springtime in Ireland
The black-faced sheep, they sniff about.
The lambs are born, the flowers bloom.
And I will stroll the garden paths
On the Emerald Isle of Ireland.
The shepherd dogs with tongues hung out
Go romping bout in all that room.
The Shannon River rushes by,
Like it’s rejoicing as we stand.
The rocky hills the foamy sea,
They seemingly call out to me.
The sunset blackens a gnarled tree.
I breathe fresh air and feel so grand.
I’m energized with joy, no doubt.
This is no time for fear and gloom.
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