'Tis what I said in Clogher, And Spring upon the year, I'll rise me on the morrow's morn And win away from here; Since I'm the parish piper Whose breezy heart has blown So many partners into mates, And I without my own. When larks arose in Clogher I took me at my word To find my nough o' partners, yet To lose the one preferred, The while I coursed the county And stepped to weary drone Of many a piper's gathered tunes, And I without my own. Then back come I to Clogher To play with finer art, While memory clasped the dream of her That danced within my heart, But since the folk I coupled Have gone beneath Tyrone, I pipe their tripping childer now, And I without my own. 'Tis what I think in Clogher, And harvest on the year, I'll soon be off to neighbour her Who left me lornsome here. And There I'll be the piper, If still I must be lone; Else she and I'll be partners There And each the other's own. |