Carra
It's back I'd be in my home again, that is up by Carra way,
Where quilted petticoats they wear and suits of hodden grey,
The good wives by Carra way and bold men straight and strong—
And here I walk on grey streets and always thinking long!
The whins on flower by Carra way and the lush land so still!
And the white lake of Carra sleeps under the hush of the hill—
Brown loaves in the oven rise, drone the honey bees,
The thatched home snug on the braes beneath the humming trees!
So it's back I'd be in my home again where they wait for me day and day,
In the little house with its hat of thatch that stands by Carra way—
Stirabout and buttermilk, a six-hand reel and song;
And here I walk on the grey streets and always thinking long!
Where quilted petticoats they wear and suits of hodden grey,
The good wives by Carra way and bold men straight and strong—
And here I walk on grey streets and always thinking long!
The whins on flower by Carra way and the lush land so still!
And the white lake of Carra sleeps under the hush of the hill—
Brown loaves in the oven rise, drone the honey bees,
The thatched home snug on the braes beneath the humming trees!
So it's back I'd be in my home again where they wait for me day and day,
In the little house with its hat of thatch that stands by Carra way—
Stirabout and buttermilk, a six-hand reel and song;
And here I walk on the grey streets and always thinking long!
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