I hear a bird, a Londonderry bird. It well may be he's bringing me a cheering word. I hear a breeze, a River Shannon breeze. It well may be it's followed me across the seas. Then tell me please, how are things in Glacomora? Is that little brook still leaping there? Does it still run down to Donny Cove, through Killy Bex, Kilcary and Kildare? How are things in Glacomora? Is that willow tree still weeping there? Does that laddie with the twinkling eye come whistling by? And does he walk away sad and dreamy there, not to see me there? So I ask each weeping willow and each brook along the way. And each lad that comes a-whistling to relay. How are things in Glacomora this fine day? How are things in Glacomora this fine day? How are things in Glacomora this fine day? How are things in Glacomora this fine day? How are things in Glacomora this fine day? So I ask each weeping willow and each brook along the way. And each lad that comes a-whistling to relay. How are things in Glacomora this fine day? How are things in Glacomora this fine day?