PAT MURPHY'S MEADOW
PAT MURPHY’S MEADOW – By J.M. DEVINE
The autumn days are here again, and the night wind’s chilly blow;
The woodland’s turned to golden hue, and the harvest moon's aglow.
I dream again of days long past to come no more, I know,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
I see the blue of ocean, the distant sail afar,
As the maiden in the meadow strikes up “Dark Lough na Gar”;
There was music soft and tender in the winds that whispered low,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
Where are the boys and girls all, who danced the gay quadrille,
And the singer warbling sweetly, “The Burning Granite Mill”;
To hear again at sunset, “Where Sweet Afton's Waters Flow”,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
Those days are but a mem’ry, like the snows of yesteryear.
And when evening shades are falling, all alone I shed a tear;
On my cheek I feel the soft touch of winds that whispered low,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
The autumn days are here again, and the night wind’s chilly blow;
The woodland’s turned to golden hue, and the harvest moon's aglow.
I dream again of days long past to come no more, I know,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
I see the blue of ocean, the distant sail afar,
As the maiden in the meadow strikes up “Dark Lough na Gar”;
There was music soft and tender in the winds that whispered low,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
Where are the boys and girls all, who danced the gay quadrille,
And the singer warbling sweetly, “The Burning Granite Mill”;
To hear again at sunset, “Where Sweet Afton's Waters Flow”,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.
Those days are but a mem’ry, like the snows of yesteryear.
And when evening shades are falling, all alone I shed a tear;
On my cheek I feel the soft touch of winds that whispered low,
When I mowed Pat Murphy's meadow in the sunny long ago.