Listen to Ireland in Song

Above the meeting waters, where the Barrow bends away,
The old stone keeps the weather of an eight-hundred-year day,
Before the walls were lifted, earth and timber held the ground,
Then Marshal's towers rose over road and river sound.

Four corners watched the crossing, thick walls against the rain,
A hall of fire and timber, a store of wool and grain,
The town grew in its shadow, the boats moved south and north,
And Carlow Castle guarded every road that carried forth.

The river carried memory,
The stone remembered more,
Of hands that built and watched here
Beside the Barrow shore.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Stronghold by the Barrow's flow,
Two old towers keep the silence
Of the years they used to know.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Where the Burren meets the stream,
Broken stone above the water,
Still awake inside the dream.

The hall received the judges, the kitchen held the flame,
The clerks and royal officers recorded debt and name,
When Ireland's Exchequer travelled from Dublin to this place,
A third floor rose for parchment, seal and measured grace.

Downriver went the harvest, grain and wool towards New Ross,
Upriver came the wine and salt through current, rain and moss,
The castle was a household, a fortress and a crown,
A working heart of government above the growing town.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Stronghold by the Barrow's flow,
Two old towers keep the silence
Of the years they used to know.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Where the Burren meets the stream,
Broken stone above the water,
Still awake inside the dream.

The frontier years grew harder, and the walls were tried again,
Through rebellion, siege and changing hands, through cannon smoke and rain,
No triumph needs repeating, no old anger needs a flame,
Only courage, fear and sorrow carried quietly in the name.

The Exchequer left for Dublin when the fourteenth century waned,
Yet the stronghold kept its watch while crown and country changed,
Until the guns of Ireton faced the final southern stand,
And another chapter closed beside the river and the land.

Cross-shaped light within the stone,
Open sky through walls alone,
Not a hymn of war or crown,
But mercy falling on the town.

Let the bells beyond the river
Call the living through the day,
While the old walls keep their witness
And the water moves away.

Then one misguided morning brought the powder to the base,
And half the ancient building fell and vanished from the place,
The eastern walls were broken, their stone was cleared away,
But two round towers and western wall remained to meet the day.

The spades returned in later years to read the buried ground,
The timber fort, the kiln and well, the older ditch were found,
Now gardens soften Castle Hill, and town life passes near,
But Carlow Castle still makes eight long centuries appear.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Stronghold by the Barrow's flow,
Two old towers keep the silence
Of the years they used to know.

Carlow Castle, Carlow Castle,
Where the Burren meets the stream,
Broken stone above the water,
Still awake inside the dream.

Stone and river, road and rain,
What was broken still remains,
Carlow Castle, quiet and strong,
Keeps the town within its song.

By the meeting waters, the old walls carry on.

Long Strand - Where the Wild Waves Run

Beyond the road from quiet Rosscarbery,
The fields fall gently toward the western sun,
Then all at once the land gives way to ocean
On the long shore where the wild waves run.

Dark rounded stones lie scattered by the tideline,
Wet sand holds the evening for a while,
And far across the green-grey breaking water,
The headlands fade along the open sky.

The wind comes rolling from the ocean,
The tide keeps calling to the land,
Every wave begins a journey,
Every road ends on the strand.

Long Strand, Long Strand,
Where the wild waves run,
Under the clouds of Castlefreke,
Under the western sun.

From the dark stones to the white foam,
From the dunes to the open blue,
Long Strand, keep the sound of the ocean
Long after we leave you.

Behind the beach, beyond the bending grasses,
Kilkeran Lake lies sheltered from the foam,
Where moving dunes and quiet coastal waters
Give the wind and wandering birds a home.

The marram holds the sand through changing seasons,
Young dunes rise where sea and dry land meet,
While every storm reshapes the outer shoreline
And leaves another pattern at our feet.

The wind comes rolling from the ocean,
The tide keeps calling to the land,
Every wave begins a journey,
Every road ends on the strand.

Long Strand, Long Strand,
Where the wild waves run,
Under the clouds of Castlefreke,
Under the western sun.

From the dark stones to the white foam,
From the dunes to the open blue,
Long Strand, keep the sound of the ocean
Long after we leave you.

Beyond the dunes, the Castlefreke woods are waiting,
Old walls run beneath the branches there,
Rathbarry keeps the shadow of a stronghold
And stories carried down through salt-filled air.

A cross stands high above the fields and woodland,
Raised in memory beneath the coastal sky,
And far toward Galley Head the lighthouse watches,
A quiet light where ocean roads pass by.

The wind comes rolling from the ocean,
Past every wall and weathered stone,
The years may change the names and pathways,
But the sea keeps its own tone.

Long Strand, Long Strand,
Where the wild waves run,
Under the clouds of Castlefreke,
Under the western sun.

From the dark stones to the white foam,
From the dunes to the open blue,
Long Strand, keep the sound of the ocean
Long after we leave you.

We built small towers from the stones beside us,
Knowing wind or tide would bring them down.
Nothing made by human hands lasts forever,
Yet love leaves signs where none are found.

The sea does not explain its endless motion,
The shore does not ask anyone to stay.
But something in that wide and restless water
Follows every traveller away.

We came when evening opened through the cloudline,
When gold ran softly over stone and foam,
The beach lay wide, the waves were full of thunder,
Yet walking there could make the spirit calm.

We left a few small towers by the shoreline,
Grey stones stacked beneath the fading light,
And carried home the wind of Castlefreke
And waves still breaking somewhere in the night.

Long Strand, Long Strand,
Where the wild waves run,
Under the clouds of Castlefreke,
Under the western sun.

From the dark stones to the white foam,
From the dunes to the open blue,
Long Strand, keep the sound of the ocean
Long after we leave you.

Long Strand, Long Strand,
Let the Atlantic rise,
Carry the light beyond the headlands,
Carry the song across the sky.

Though the tide may take our footsteps
And the stone towers disappear,
The wild waves keep returning,
And their voice remains here.

Stone upon stone,
Wave after wave,
The shore holds nothing forever,
But remembers what we gave.

Where the evening meets the ocean,
Where the wild waves run.

[Title]
Sligo - Between Benbulben and the Bay

[Intro - soft tin whistle, gentle guitar, calm western river rhythm]
By the Garavogue at evening,
Where the river turns to grey,
Sligo lifts its western windows
Between Benbulben and the bay.

[Verse 1 - warm male lead vocal]
The Garavogue runs out of Lough Gill,
Through bridge and quay and stone,
It carries lake-light through the town,
And gives the streets a tone.

Shells beneath the old place-name,
Sea-wind in the rain,
Sligo wakes with mountain shadow,
And river-song again.

[Pre-Chorus - soft female harmony enters]
From Abbey Street to water,
From market roofs to sky,
The west keeps moving softly
Where the gulls and church bells fly.

[Chorus - gentle repeated chorus, not anthem-heavy]
Sligo, Sligo, river to the sea,
Benbulben in the morning,
The bay wind calling free.
Sligo, Sligo, old stone, western rain,
Between the mountain and the water,
Your quiet song remains.

[Verse 2 - old stone and Christian memory]
Sligo Abbey keeps its arches,
Open now to sun and rain,
Dominican stones still holding
Prayer, loss and time's refrain.

The cathedral bells rise over town,
Their chimes across the air,
A quiet Christian memory
Still finding music there.

[Chorus - slightly fuller, still intimate]
Sligo, Sligo, river to the sea,
Benbulben in the morning,
The bay wind calling free.
Sligo, Sligo, old stone, western rain,
Between the mountain and the water,
Your quiet song remains.

[Instrumental Break - fiddle and tin whistle, gentle bodhran, warm strings]

[Verse 3 - ancient landscape, carefully worded]
Out by Carrowmore the old stones
Stand in fields of western light,
Passage tombs and open silence,
Older than our names for night.

On Knocknarea the cairn stands high,
A story later tongues have told;
But stone is older than the legend,
And the wind is older still.

[Bridge - human meaning and Yeats memory]
Poets heard the western weather,
Not because the place was dream,
But because the real light gathered
On mountain, bay and stream.

Christ-light rests in chapel windows,
Mercy walks the rain-wet lane;
Sligo keeps its living memory
In river mist and mountain grain.

[Verse 4 - living local memory]
So let the river carry footsteps,
Past the bridges, shops and quays,
Let the bay breathe in from Rosses Point,
Let Strandhill answer on the breeze.

For Sligo is more than written pages,
More than names the guidebooks say;
It is a western town still singing
Between Benbulben and the bay.

[Final Chorus - fuller, warm, emotional but not stadium-like]
Sligo, Sligo, river to the sea,
Benbulben in the morning,
The bay wind calling free.
Sligo, Sligo, old stone, western rain,
Between the mountain and the water,
Your quiet song remains.

Sligo, Sligo, Garavogue and stone,
Where the western light remembers
Every road that leads us home.

[Final Refrain - soft emotional finish]
Mountain and bay, river and rain,
Sligo, call us home again.
Mountain and bay, river and rain,
Sligo, call us home again.

[Outro - final vocal line]
Between Benbulben and the bay,
Sligo keeps the song.

[Outro - instrumental only, 8 seconds, no vocals]
Fading tin whistle, soft fiddle, gentle guitar, light bodhran, slow natural fade-out.

[End]

[Title]
Clonakilty - Where the Colours Meet the Tide

[Intro - acoustic guitar, soft tin whistle, gentle fiddle, light bodhran, continuous warm rhythm]

[Verse 1 - warm male lead vocal]
At the head of Clonakilty Bay,
Morning gathers after rain,
Painted letters over shopfronts,
Flowers bright along the lane.
Narrow streets unfold to squares,
Old stone leaning into light,
And the tide beyond the rooftops
Turns the western water bright.

[Pre-Chorus - soft female harmony enters]
From the little river crossing
To the quays where waters run,
The town holds all its colours
Till the clouds release the sun.

[Chorus - warm, flowing, memorable, not stadium-like]
Clonakilty, Clonakilty,
Where the colours meet the tide,
Painted streets and older stories
Carry West Cork side by side.
When the rain gives way to sunlight,
Every doorway comes alive.

[Verse 2 - historical, steady pulse]
Long before the painted windows,
Stone and woodland shaped the name,
Market days drew farms together,
Loom and mill once marked the day.
Corn stores lined the working quayside,
Boats bore harvest from the shore,
And the hands that built Clonakilty
Left their measure in each door.

[Chorus - slightly fuller harmony]
Clonakilty, Clonakilty,
Where the colours meet the tide,
Painted streets and older stories
Carry West Cork side by side.
When the rain gives way to sunlight,
Every doorway comes alive.

[Instrumental Break - 25 to 35 seconds; acoustic guitar leads, answered by fiddle and tin whistle; light bodhran; no empty pause]

[Verse 3 - reflective local history]
At Emmet Square the old trees shelter
Walls that watch the seasons turn;
Young Michael Collins lived here once,
With wider roads still left to learn.
Now the museum holds the questions,
Courage, conflict, hope and cost;
History here is kept, not shouted,
So the past is heard, not lost.

[Bridge - quiet Christian and community note]
Above the roofs on Western Road,
Green sandstone rises into prayer,
And evening through the church's windows
Lays Christ-light softly in the air.
Not every strength is noise or glory,
Not every light must fill the sky;
Some is neighbour, work and welcome,
Where the daily mercies lie.

[Chorus - warm male lead with fuller female harmony]
Clonakilty, Clonakilty,
Where the colours meet the tide,
Painted streets and older stories
Carry West Cork side by side.
When the rain gives way to sunlight,
Every doorway comes alive.

[Verse 4 - living town, brighter rhythm]
The West Cork trains once climbed the hillside
To their terminus in town;
Now in careful miniature,
Their wheels still make the journey round.
Friday market fills the morning,
Food and flowers set in line;
When guitars arrive in autumn,
Old and new in music join.

[Final Chorus - expanded, emotional but not anthem-heavy]
Clonakilty, Clonakilty,
Where the colours meet the tide,
Painted streets and older stories
Carry West Cork side by side.
When the rain gives way to sunlight,
Every doorway comes alive.

From the square toward Inchydoney,
Bay and western farmland shine;
Clonakilty, keep your colours,
Keep your welcome bright and kind.

[Final Refrain - softer emotional finish]
Stone and woodland, road and railway,
Market, prayer and turning tide,
Clonakilty, all your stories
In your painted streets abide.

[Outro - final vocal lines]
Where the colours meet the tide,
Clonakilty comes alive.

[Outro - instrumental only, 20 to 30 seconds, no vocals]
Fading acoustic guitar, soft fiddle and tin whistle, light bodhran, natural continuous fade-out.

[End]

Above Kinsale in evening light,
Where harbour waters shine,
The old walls hold the western wind
And keep their patient line.

At Summer Cove the ramparts rise,
Star-shaped over sea,
Charles Fort watches Kinsale Harbour,
Stone above the quay.

Built for cannon, tide and warning,
Under Charles's name,
It learned the weight of wind and years,
Of salt and cloud and flame.

Not every wall is shouting,
Not every stone is scarred;
Some keep watch in silence
And make the memory hard.

Charles Fort, Charles Fort, harbour and stone,
Standing by the water,
Weathered and alone.
Charles Fort, Charles Fort, under Kinsale sky,
The sea wind moves through old walls
And the years go passing by.

Robinson drew the lines of strength,
Wide bastions facing foam,
While James Fort kept the other shore
Across the harbour home.

Five arms held the seaward watch,
Flagstaff, Charles and North,
Kinsale light and Cockpit stone
Looking outward, looking forth.

Charles Fort, Charles Fort, harbour and stone,
Standing by the water,
Weathered and alone.
Charles Fort, Charles Fort, under Kinsale sky,
The sea wind moves through old walls
And the years go passing by.

Thirteen days the thunder circled,
High ground, smoke and rain,
Yet after every broken season
The harbour breathed again.

Garrison years and civil fire
Left their marks in stone,
But morning still returns to Kinsale,
Soft on wall and bone.

Let history stand clearly,
Let grief be spoken low;
No song should turn old suffering
Into a marching show.

For every hand that shaped the wall,
For every watch once kept,
The harbour holds a quieter truth
Where time and water slept.

Now visitors walk the ramparts,
Past the grass and weathered stair,
Looking out to James Fort's shadow
And the boats in harbour air.

For Charles Fort is more than battle,
More than names in stone;
It is harbour, wind and watching,
Kinsale's memory standing alone.

Charles Fort, Charles Fort, harbour and stone,
Standing by the water,
Weathered and alone.
Charles Fort, Charles Fort, under Kinsale sky,
The sea wind moves through old walls
And the years go passing by.

Charles Fort, Charles Fort, where the waters gleam,
Keep the harbour memory
Like a lantern in a dream.

Harbour and rampart, wind and rain,
Kinsale calls the light again.
Stone and water, sky and foam,
Charles Fort keeps the old road home.

By the harbour and the stone,
Charles Fort keeps the song.

Where the harbour holds the light,
And the coloured houses glow,
Kinsale wakes beside the tide
Where Bandon waters flow.

At the headland of the sea,
Where old streets lean to blue,
Kinsale keeps a harbour heart
In every changing view.

Boats lie quiet by the quay,
Hills fold green and wide,
And morning moves through painted doors
With salt upon the tide.

And over stone and water,
Through church bell, mast and foam,
The harbour gathers every road
And softly calls it home.

Kinsale, Kinsale, where the harbour holds the light,
Colour on the old streets,
Boats upon the tide.
Kinsale, Kinsale, through the wind and rain,
Your water keeps a memory
And sings it back again.

St Multose keeps the older prayer,
Stone and tower still,
While Desmond Castle holds the town
Beside the turning hill.

Customs, prison, famine shadow,
Names the walls have known,
Yet harbour light comes softly down
And rests on every stone.

Kinsale, Kinsale, where the harbour holds the light,
Colour on the old streets,
Boats upon the tide.
Kinsale, Kinsale, through the wind and rain,
Your water keeps a memory
And sings it back again.

Once the world came armed to Kinsale,
England, Spain and Gaelic clans,
And after smoke and broken winter
Nothing stayed the same.

Charles Fort watched the narrow entrance,
James Fort kept the shore,
But the song beneath the harbour
Is deeper than the war.

Let history stand clearly,
Let sorrow not be sold;
Christ-light through the church doorway
Warms the weathered cold.

For every street and every vessel,
For every hand that stayed,
Kinsale keeps a living mercy
Where harbour memories stay.

Now the streets are bright with colour,
Artists, craft and open air,
Marina masts and evening voices
Rise like music there.

For Kinsale is more than beauty,
More than stories guides retell;
It is harbour, street and courage,
Where old waters still speak well.

Kinsale, Kinsale, where the harbour holds the light,
Colour on the old streets,
Boats upon the tide.
Kinsale, Kinsale, through the wind and rain,
Your water keeps a memory
And sings it back again.

Kinsale, Kinsale, under Cork's soft sky,
Harbour town of colour,
Keeping old roads by.

Harbour and colour, bell and stone,
Every quay and street is known,
By the tide, through rain that falls,
Kinsale hears the harbour call.

Where the harbour holds the light,
Kinsale keeps the song.

By the Lee in fading light,
Where harbour waters run,
The old stone keeps a watch tonight
Between the stars and sun.

South-east of Cork the river widens,
Softly toward the sea,
And Blackrock Castle holds the bank
Above the River Lee.

Raised to watch the harbour road,
When sails came through the tide,
It kept a quiet guard of stone
Where Cork's old waters glide.

Not every tower is thunder,
Not every wall is war;
Some keep the lamp for homeward ships
And open heaven's door.

Blackrock Castle, by the River Lee,
Stone above the water,
Star above the quay.
Blackrock Castle, through the harbour rain,
You keep the old watch softly
And call the light again.

The city's hands remembered you,
Through charter, smoke and flame,
When fire took the old stones down,
New walls rose in your name.

Higher lines and Gothic shadow,
Courtyard, tower and stair,
The river held your mirrored face
In Cork's soft evening air.

Blackrock Castle, by the River Lee,
Stone above the water,
Star above the quay.
Blackrock Castle, through the harbour rain,
You keep the old watch softly
And call the light again.

Now the old watch turns to starlight,
Past the tide and harbour wall,
Where children ask how far it is
To worlds beyond us all.

Lenses, charts and quiet questions
Fill the rooms of stone;
The castle looks from Lee to sky,
And makes the dark feel known.

Let history stand clearly,
Let legend stay apart;
The truest light is patient
When it enters through the heart.

From river watch to open sky,
From harbour mist to flame,
Blackrock keeps a Cork memory
In stone and star and name.

So walk the water softly,
Past the trees and turning tide,
Where Marina paths and harbour light
Still gather side by side.

For Blackrock Castle is more than stone,
More than walls the guidebooks tell;
It is river, watch and wonder,
Where old Cork learns the stars as well.

Blackrock Castle, by the River Lee,
Stone above the water,
Star above the quay.
Blackrock Castle, through the harbour rain,
You keep the old watch softly
And call the light again.

Blackrock Castle, under Cork's wide sky,
River below and stars above,
Still keeping watch nearby.

River and tower, harbour and star,
Old stone knows how near we are.
By the Lee, through night and rain,
Blackrock calls the light again.

By the river and the stars,
Blackrock keeps the song.

In the evening over Blarney Castle,
Where the old stones hold the rain,
The gardens breathe in golden light,
And the tower wakes again.

North-west of Cork the fields grow quiet,
Where green paths climb the hill,
A MacCarthy tower of weathered stone
Keeps its watch there still.

Built from the strength of older hands,
With battlements in the sky,
It stands above the garden walks
As years go passing by.

Not every tale needs thunder,
Not every stone must speak;
Some memories wait in silence
Where the moss is warm and deep.

Blarney Castle, stone and garden green,
Old tower in the evening,
Quiet as a dream.
Blarney Castle, through the leaves and rain,
The castle keeps a softer song
And calls the heart again.

High within the castle wall,
The famous stone is known;
They say it lends a silver tongue
To those who meet the stone.

But long before the stories grew,
Before the crowds would come,
The tower held the wind and light,
The fields, the road, the sun.

Blarney Castle, stone and garden green,
Old tower in the evening,
Quiet as a dream.
Blarney Castle, through the leaves and rain,
The castle keeps a softer song
And calls the heart again.

Through fern and flower the pathways turn,
Past walls of living green,
Where old trees lean above the grass
And hold the years between.

Blarney House beyond the lawns,
The castle near the sky,
One place of stone and garden breath
Where Cork's old roads pass by.

Let legend stay a legend,
Let history stand clear;
The truest songs are patient
With the names that gathered here.

For every hand that shaped the wall,
For every step through rain,
The castle keeps its local memory
In stone and leaf again.

So walk the garden softly,
Let the tower fill your eyes,
Let the quiet paths remember
What the louder world forgets.

For Blarney Castle is more than one old story,
More than words the travellers tell;
It is stone and green and waiting light,
Where time has learned to dwell.

Blarney Castle, stone and garden green,
Old tower in the evening,
Quiet as a dream.
Blarney Castle, through the leaves and rain,
The castle keeps a softer song
And calls the heart again.

Blarney Castle, under Cork's soft sky,
Stone and gardens holding
All the years gone by.

Stone and garden, leaf and rain,
Blarney Castle, call us home again.
Stone and garden, tower and tree,
Keep the old song quietly.

By the stone and the gardens,
Blarney Castle keeps the song.

Cobh - The Harbour and the Spire

Morning moves on Cork Harbour,
Light along the quay,
Cobh looks out from Great Island,
With the spire above the sea.

Once called Cove, then Queenstown,
Now Cobh above the tide,
The harbour holds the names of those
Who gathered side by side.

Coloured houses climb the hillside,
Windows catching fire,
And St Colman's rises over all,
The harbour and the spire.

From railway stone to water,
From platform, pier and prayer,
The town still keeps the footsteps
Of the people leaving there.

Cobh, Cobh, harbour of the west,
Where the bells ring over water,
And the tired hearts came to rest.
Cobh, Cobh, by the rolling sea,
The spire keeps watch above the town,
The harbour keeps memory.

At the Queenstown Story doorway,
Old journeys rise again,
Coffin ships and ocean liners,
Hope and hunger, loss and rain.

Annie Moore stood at the threshold,
New York waiting far away,
First through Ellis Island's gateway,
From this harbour on that day.

Cobh, Cobh, harbour of the west,
Where the bells ring over water,
And the tired hearts came to rest.
Cobh, Cobh, by the rolling sea,
The spire keeps watch above the town,
The harbour keeps memory.

Titanic called at Queenstown,
One April morning bright,
One hundred twenty-three went aboard,
Into history and night.

Lusitania's sorrow followed,
Off Kinsale in wartime foam,
Cobh sent boats across the water,
And brought the wounded home.

Not every bell is celebration,
Some are mercy through the rain,
Christ-light in the cathedral windows,
Grace for every unnamed pain.

For every hand that waved from harbour,
Every prayer beside the shore,
Cobh keeps watch in stone and music,
Singing softly evermore.

Spike Island lies across the water,
Haulbowline holds the naval line,
Boats move slow through morning silver,
Past the houses bright with shine.

So let the carillon keep ringing,
Forty-nine bells in the air,
Let the harbour carry memory,
Let the spire lift every prayer.

Cobh, Cobh, harbour of the west,
Where the bells ring over water,
And the tired hearts came to rest.
Cobh, Cobh, by the rolling sea,
The spire keeps watch above the town,
The harbour keeps memory.

Cobh, Cobh, through the salt and light,
From Queenstown's quay to St Colman's,
Your song stays warm tonight.

Harbour and spire, water and bell,
Cobh remembers what waves can tell.
Harbour and spire, mercy and sea,
Cobh keeps the names in memory.

The harbour keeps memory.

By the Lee in evening light,
Where the bridges hold the town,
The river moves through Cork tonight,
And the bells come drifting down.

The River Lee runs silver bright,
Through quay and bridge and stone,
It folds the city in its arms,
And makes an island home.

Old streets lean close to morning rain,
Red roofs catch the sun,
And every lane remembers names
Of those who walked and won.

And over roofs and river,
Through market, wall and street,
The bells of Shandon answer
With a sound both old and sweet.

Cork, Cork, by the River Lee,
Where the bells ring over town,
Through stone and rain, through light and tide,
Your quiet song comes down.

Cork, Cork, in the western air,
With the river at your feet,
From Shandon tower to Fin Barre's spires,
Your heart still keeps the beat.

By St Anne's tower the music turns,
Above the northern hill,
The Shandon Bells keep calling out,
Across the city still.

St Fin Barre's Cathedral rises,
With spires against the sky,
A Christian memory shaped in stone,
Where prayers have travelled by.

Cork, Cork, by the River Lee,
Where the bells ring over town,
Through stone and rain, through light and tide,
Your quiet song comes down.

Cork, Cork, in the western air,
With the river at your feet,
From Shandon tower to Fin Barre's spires,
Your heart still keeps the beat.

The English Market wakes with voices,
Bread and fish and morning trade,
Old Cork gathers at the counters,
Where daily life is made.

Elizabeth Fort keeps watch above,
Where city stories climb,
And old walls whisper through the streets
Of weather, work and time.

Not every light is loud or golden,
Some shine softly through the rain,
Christ-light resting in the doorways,
Mercy walking every lane.

In humble homes and market mornings,
In river mist and bells that call,
The city keeps a gentle memory,
Wide enough to carry all.

So let the river carry footsteps,
Past the bridges, shops and quays,
Let the bells rise over rooftops,
Let them travel on the breeze.

For Cork is more than walls and water,
More than names the guidebooks tell,
It is a living city singing
Where the river meets the bell.

Cork, Cork, by the River Lee,
Where the bells ring over town,
Through stone and rain, through light and tide,
Your quiet song comes down.

Cork, Cork, in the western air,
With the river at your feet,
From Shandon tower to Fin Barre's spires,
Your heart still keeps the beat.

River, tower, market, stone,
Every bridge and bell is known,
By the Lee, through rain that falls,
Cork still sings through streets and walls.

By the river and the bells,
Cork remembers what it tells.

Corrib water, western rain,
Stone and song awake again,
By Galway Bay, where old streets run,
The city turns toward evening sun.

Where the River Corrib hurries down
To meet the restless Galway Bay,
The Spanish Arch keeps watch in stone
At the closing of the day.

Old walls still hold the harbour light,
The Long Walk leans toward the foam,
And every gull above the quay
Calls Galway’s children home.

And the waters remember,
And the old stones know,
The streets where western stories
Rise and softly flow.

Galway, Galway, through wind and rain,
Through Corrib water and western flame,
From Spanish Arch to the restless sea,
Your living heart still sings in me.

Galway, Galway, in light and storm,
In old stone walls and hearth still warm,
Through every street and every bay,
Your song goes on, your song will stay.

Before the towers of modern days,
The town was held by wall and gate,
Where market voices filled the lanes
And bells would mark the hour late.

St Nicholas stood through changing years,
A house of prayer within the town,
And Christ-light moved through quiet aisles
When evening rain came down.

Galway, Galway, through wind and rain,
Through Corrib water and western flame,
From Spanish Arch to the restless sea,
Your living heart still sings in me.

Galway, Galway, in light and storm,
In old stone walls and hearth still warm,
Through every street and every bay,
Your song goes on, your song will stay.

City of Tribes and merchant names,
Old houses shaped by trade and tide,
Where hands once built the public stones
And ships lay sheltered side by side.

By Claddagh shore the fishers lived,
Where Corrib water meets the foam,
Heart and hands and crown still tell
Of love remembered home.

Not every song is bright and loud,
Some rise softly through the rain,
In shawls once worn against the wind,
In work, in prayer, in pain.

By St Nicholas, by the quay,
By old walls facing western light,
A small clear mercy keeps its flame
Through Galway’s day and night.

Out by Salthill’s open walk,
The bay runs silver to the west,
Blackrock waits beyond the prom
Where sea wind fills the chest.

From Eyre Square streets to music’s sound,
From museum stone to ocean air,
The living city sings because
Its memory is still there.

Galway, Galway, through wind and rain,
Through Corrib water and western flame,
From Spanish Arch to the restless sea,
Your living heart still sings in me.

Galway, Galway, in light and storm,
In old stone walls and hearth still warm,
Through every street and every bay,
Your song goes on, your song will stay.

Galway, Galway, softly strong,
River city, sea-wind song,
From Claddagh shore to Salthill foam,
Your western light is calling home.

Through wall and water, wind and flame,
Galway still remembers her name.

By Shannon water, by Treaty stone,
Limerick calls the river home,
Castle wall and cathedral bell,
Old city, rise and tell.

Where the Shannon widens to the tide,
The city stands by the river side,
Quay and bridge in morning rain,
Old streets waking soft again.

Not only castle, not only name,
But working doors and window flame,
A market voice, a riverside,
A living heart the stones still hide.

And the river remembers,
And the old stones know,
The quiet streets of Limerick
Where deep songs grow.

Limerick, Limerick, by Shannon's flow,
Where castle walls and church bells glow,
By Treaty Stone and western rain,
Your living heart sings on again.

Limerick, Limerick, through light and storm,
In Georgian streets and hearth still warm,
From King's Island to the quay,
Ireland hears your song in me.

On King's Island the towers still stand,
King John's Castle by the strand,
Eight hundred years of river air,
Stone keeps watch in silence there.

St Mary's rises, old and still,
Where royal ground met holy will,
Since eleven sixty-eight in prayer,
Bells have crossed the Shannon air.

Limerick, Limerick, by Shannon's flow,
Where castle walls and church bells glow,
By Treaty Stone and western rain,
Your living heart sings on again.

Limerick, Limerick, through light and storm,
In Georgian streets and hearth still warm,
From King's Island to the quay,
Ireland hears your song in me.

Across the river stands the stone,
Sixteen ninety-one is known,
The Treaty City keeps its name,
Through river mist and evening flame.

Newtown Pery streets were drawn,
In Georgian lines of brick and dawn,
Pery Square and city light,
Holding centuries in sight.

Not every strength is loud or proud,
Some lights shine softly through the cloud,
Christ-light under cathedral stone,
Mercy keeping hearts at home.

By work and prayer, by loss and grace,
The river gives the city space,
And every bridge from shore to shore
Remembers those who crossed before.

The Milk Market wakes with voices bright,
Fresh bread, flowers, morning light,
Three Bridges carry steps along,
Where Shannon water shapes the song.

At Hunt old treasures keep their place,
In galleries new colours wake,
Through art and street and river rain,
Limerick sings itself again.

Limerick, Limerick, by Shannon's flow,
Where castle walls and church bells glow,
By Treaty Stone and western rain,
Your living heart sings on again.

Limerick, Limerick, through light and storm,
In Georgian streets and hearth still warm,
From King's Island to the quay,
Ireland hears your song in me.

By Shannon water, by Treaty stone,
No old name stands alone,
Castle, market, bell and rain,
Limerick sings her name again.

Limerick, Limerick, river-born,
Through evening light and morning storm,
By stone and song, by bridge and flame,
Ireland remembers your name.

By Shannon water, by Treaty stone,
Limerick still calls her children home.

Road of stone, road of rain,
Over Wicklow hills again,
From Hollywood to Glendalough,
The old path carries the name.

From Hollywood the way begins,
Where black posts mark the line,
Yellow pilgrims on the road,
Through fields and forest shine.

Minor roads and pasture tracks,
Boardwalks over bogland grey,
Steps go softly through the hills,
Along St Kevin's Way.

At Ballinagee the paths are joined,
From Valleymount they meet,
And Wicklow Gap lifts up the sky
Beneath the walker's feet.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Over hill and stone,
Where pilgrims walked to Glendalough,
And prayer became a road.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Through Wicklow wind and rain,
Ireland keeps the pilgrim path,
And sings the road again.

Old flagstones still can be seen,
In places on the climb,
A broken line of ancient steps,
Still carrying medieval time.

Through open hill and forest shade,
By gate and field and stream,
The road remembers every foot
That walked toward Kevin's dream.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Over hill and stone,
Where pilgrims walked to Glendalough,
And prayer became a road.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Through Wicklow wind and rain,
Ireland keeps the pilgrim path,
And sings the road again.

Down beside the Glendasan River,
The valley opens wide,
The round tower waits in Glendalough,
With the lakes on either side.

Old churches stand in mountain air,
Old crosses face the sky,
And stones that heard the pilgrim psalms
Still let the years pass by.

From mountain pass to monastic stone,
The road begins to bend,
Through green and rain and quiet hills,
To Kevin's valley end.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Over hill and stone,
Where pilgrims walked to Glendalough,
And prayer became a road.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Through Wicklow wind and rain,
Ireland keeps the pilgrim path,
And sings the road again.

Some come as walkers, some as pilgrims,
Some for history, some for peace,
Some with passports, stamps and stories,
Some who simply need release.

Not every journey has to hurry,
Not every road is made for speed,
Some paths are slow enough for silence,
Some hills know what hearts may need.

So keep the markers, keep the gates,
The fields, the stones, the rain,
The quiet kindness of the land
That lets the path remain.

For every step toward Glendalough,
Through Wicklow's changing light,
Becomes a song of road and prayer,
A small and faithful light.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Over hill and stone,
Where pilgrims walked to Glendalough,
And prayer became a road.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Through Wicklow wind and rain,
Ireland keeps the pilgrim path,
And sings the road again.

From Hollywood to Glendalough,
From Valleymount through rain,
By Wicklow Gap and Glendasan,
The pilgrim road remains.

St Kevin's Way, St Kevin's Way,
Still calling hearts today,
Through field and stone, through hill and prayer,
The old path finds its way.

A road of rain, a road of prayer,
Across the Wicklow hills.

Glendalough Round Tower - The Monastic City

In Glendalough where the old stones stand,
A tower rises from Ireland’s land,
High through the rain, through the mountain air,
A bell once called the monks to prayer.

Its doorway waits above the ground,
Where ladders rose without a sound,
Not built for pride, not built for fame,
But to lift the valley toward God’s name.

And the stones remember,
And the valley hears,
The prayer of the monks
Through a thousand years.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

Through the ancient Gateway pilgrims came,
Leaving the road and the world’s loud claim,
By the cross-marked Sanctuary Stone,
The tired soul was not alone.

Pass the stone, enter peace,
Let the noise of the journey cease,
For not every shelter has walls alone,
Some are held by prayer and stone.

And the gate still whispers,
And the old paths know,
Where the feet of the pilgrims
Once moved slow.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

The Cathedral walls are open wide,
With roofless prayer beneath the sky,
St Kevin’s Cross stands worn and still,
Where time walks softly down the hill.

The graveyard keeps the names and none,
The known, the hidden, every one,
Generations rest below,
Where mountain winds and lake mists go.

The little church they call the Kitchen
Holds its tower like a chimney’s vision,
But no hearth fire is burning there,
Only stone and ancient prayer.

Round the tower the old bells rang,
And Irish psalms and Scriptures sang,
In Latin lines and Gaelic hands,
Wisdom travelled through these lands.

This was no empty place of stone,
But a city where the soul was known,
Houses, fields, and chapel ground,
Work and worship woven round.

No spell is needed in this place,
The Cross has left its mark of grace,
And every heart that comes in pain
May hear the old prayer rise again.

So let the tower stand in rain,
Let the old bell call again,
Not with noise, and not with pride,
But with mercy deep inside.

Glendalough, Glendalough, tower of stone,
Call the heart that walks alone,
By cross and grave, by rain and tree,
Ireland’s old prayer still speaks to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, bell in the sky,
Over the valley where the lake winds sigh,
From Kevin’s name to the mountain flame,
The stones still whisper their holy name.

Glendalough, Glendalough, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lake,
From the tower door to the open sky,
Your prayer still rises over Ireland high.

By bell and stone, through prayer and flame,
Glendalough remembers its holy name.

By the lake, by the stone,
Where the Wicklow waters shine,
A quiet prayer began to grow
In Ireland’s green and holy time.

By the Upper Lake he came,
Seeking God in silence there,
No golden crown, no proud name,
Only Christ-light, rain and prayer.

In the narrow cave above the water,
Where the mountain shadows fall,
Kevin kept the hidden vigil,
And the valley heard the call.

From a lonely place of prayer,
A path began to rise,
Through the stones of Glendalough,
Under Wicklow’s quiet skies.

St Kevin of Glendalough,
Teach us the quiet road,
Where two lakes hold the Wicklow sky
And prayer becomes a home.

From the cave above the water
To the city built of stone,
Ireland remembers the saint
Who made this valley known.

People came through wind and rain,
Seeking counsel, hope and peace,
Hands were lifted, hearts were healed,
And the lonely prayer increased.

Monks gathered by the lakeshore,
Learning mercy, psalms and grace,
Till the valley of two waters
Became a holy place.

Not by sword and not by thunder,
Not by silver, not by fame,
But by fasting, love and prayer,
Christ was shining through his name.

St Kevin of Glendalough,
Teach us the quiet road,
Where two lakes hold the Wicklow sky
And prayer becomes a home.

From the cave above the water
To the city built of stone,
Ireland remembers the saint
Who made this valley known.

On the third day of June,
The old bells softly say,
Pilgrims found the mountain road,
And walked St Kevin’s Way.

Where the stones and waters meet,
Where the green hills bend and pray,
A hidden life still sings to us
Across the years today.

St Kevin of Glendalough,
Teach us the quiet road,
Where two lakes hold the Wicklow sky
And prayer becomes a home.

From the cave above the water
To the city built of stone,
Ireland remembers the saint
Who made this valley known.

By the lake, by the stone,
Christ-light in the rain,
St Kevin of Glendalough,
Pray for us again.

In Wicklow’s hills where the still waters lie,
Glendalough wakes under Ireland’s sky,
Two lakes are shining in the morning grey,
And the old paths lead where the pilgrims pray.

The lower water, the upper deep,
Hold the valley in a quiet sleep,
Through mist and heather, through rain and stone,
The mountains guard a world of their own.

And the valley remembers,
And the waters know,
The prayer in the silence
Where the old winds blow.

Glendalough, Glendalough, valley of two lakes,
Where the morning light through the water wakes,
From Kevin’s prayer to the open sky,
Your ancient song will never die.

Glendalough, Glendalough, under Irish rain,
Where Christ-light rises through stone again,
By lake and mountain, path and tree,
Your quiet heart still calls to me.

Kevin came where the wild birds flew,
Seeking the One whom the heart still knew,
No crown, no comfort, no earthly name,
Only prayer like a hidden flame.

The monks once walked where the grasses grow,
And Scripture lived where the waters flow,
Stone by stone, through the changing years,
The valley kept its holy tears.

Glendalough, Glendalough, valley of two lakes,
Where the morning light through the water wakes,
From Kevin’s prayer to the open sky,
Your ancient song will never die.

Glendalough, Glendalough, under Irish rain,
Where Christ-light rises through stone again,
By lake and mountain, path and tree,
Your quiet heart still calls to me.

The round tower stands where the old stones keep
The names of those who rest and sleep,
Church walls open to the sky,
And crosses weather as years go by.

By Kevin’s Bed above the lake,
The silent cliffs remember wake,
Not every prayer is spoken loud,
Some rise like mist through a mountain cloud.

This is no tale of magic ground,
No shadowed spell, no ancient sound,
But Ireland’s faith in water and stone,
A valley where the soul stands alone.

For every pilgrim, tired and worn,
There is a path through rain to morn,
And every heart that comes in pain
May hear the old prayer rise again.

Now walkers pass where the old paths bend,
Families come where the lake winds send,
Cameras catch the changing light,
But the deeper beauty stays from sight.

Through summer green and winter cold,
The valley speaks in ways untold,
From mountain trail to chapel stone,
Glendalough still leads the spirit home.

Glendalough, Glendalough, valley of two lakes,
Where the morning light through the water wakes,
From Kevin’s prayer to the open sky,
Your ancient song will never die.

Glendalough, Glendalough, under Irish rain,
Where Christ-light rises through stone again,
By lake and mountain, path and tree,
Your quiet heart still calls to me.

Glendalough, Glendalough, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lake,
From Kevin’s silence to Ireland’s green,
Your hidden light is still unseen.

By the two still lakes, through prayer and flame,
Glendalough remembers its holy name.

Rain on the windscreen, lights in a line,
Dublin is waking under grey morning shine,
Engines are turning, the city moves slow,
Round by the road where the tired lights glow.

From Tallaght to Finglas, from southside to north,
M-fifty carries the working day forth,
Not made for glory, not made for fame,
But Ireland keeps moving through wind and rain.

And the road remembers,
And the rain comes down,
The prayers of the people
On the edge of town.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the brake lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, by field and stone,
No one is travelling alone,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

By the West-Link crossing where the Liffey flows,
The river moves quiet while the traffic slows,
The toll lights shine in the silver rain,
And the city breathes through the road again.

Airport road calling, port road wide,
Trucks in the morning on the eastern side,
Families, workers, strangers, friends,
All on the road where the city bends.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the brake lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, by field and stone,
No one is travelling alone,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

Then the clouds break open, and the sunlight runs,
On windscreens bright like a thousand suns,
The Dublin hills rise soft and blue,
And the road feels kinder for a mile or two.

Some drive in silence, some sing low,
Some watch the green fields come and go,
Some count the minutes, some carry care,
Some whisper a prayer in the moving air.

So keep the angry horn away,
Give patience to the travelling day,
For every road beneath the sky
Has souls and stories passing by.

By Liffey water, through storm and light,
Guard every driver home tonight,
Through Dublin rain and Ireland’s green,
Let mercy travel unseen.

When evening falls and the red lights burn,
The road brings back those who return,
Past exits, bridges, signs and streams,
Back to the houses, back to the dreams.

And though the city never sleeps,
The road its quiet rhythm keeps,
A circle drawn through rain and stone,
A thousand journeys leading home.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the brake lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, by field and stone,
No one is travelling alone,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

M-fifty, M-fifty, hearts awake,
Through every turn that people take,
From Liffey bridge to the open sky,
Your road goes on in Ireland’s light.

Through rain and light, by road and stone,
M-fifty, bring them home.

Rain on the windscreen, lights in a line,
Dublin wakes under a silver sky,
Engines turning, morning low,
M-fifty rolling where the brake lights glow.

From Tallaght northward, from Sandyford wide,
Past exits and bridges on the Dublin side,
Not built for glory, not built for fame,
But Ireland moves through wind and rain.

And the road keeps calling,
And the wheels keep time,
Every heart is carrying
A story down the line.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the red lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, under open sky,
A thousand journeys passing by,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

By the West-Link crossing where the Liffey flows,
The river runs under the traffic slow,
Toll lights shining in the silver rain,
The city breathes through the road again.

Airport calling, port road wide,
Trucks in the morning on the eastern side,
Families, workers, strangers, friends,
All on the road where the city bends.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the red lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, under open sky,
A thousand journeys passing by,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

Then the clouds break open, and the sunlight runs,
On windscreens bright like a thousand suns,
Dublin hills rise soft and blue,
And the road feels lighter for a mile or two.

Some drive in silence, some sing low,
Some watch the green fields come and go,
Some count the minutes, some carry care,
Some whisper a prayer in the moving air.

So keep the angry horn away,
Give patience to the travelling day,
For every road beneath the sky
Has souls and stories passing by.

By Liffey water, through storm and light,
Guard every driver home tonight,
Through Dublin rain and Ireland’s green,
Let mercy travel unseen.

When evening falls and the red lights burn,
The road brings back those who return,
Past exits, bridges, signs and streams,
Back to the houses, back to the dreams.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the rain and the red lights bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry them gently,
Bring them safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, under open sky,
A thousand journeys passing by,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

M-fifty, M-fifty, hearts awake,
Through every turn that people take,
From Liffey bridge to the open sky,
Your road goes on in Ireland’s light.

Through rain and light, by road and stone,
M-fifty, bring them home.

M50 Motorway - Bring Us Home (Family Version)

Saturday morning, shoes by the door,
Kids in the back asking, “How long more?”
Clouds drift away from the Dublin sky,
And sunbeams open where the cars roll by.

Seatbelts clicking, coffee to go,
M-fifty rolling with a gentle glow,
Not in a hurry, not chasing fame,
Just a family journey through Ireland again.

And the wheels keep turning,
And the day begins,
With little voices laughing
Through the Dublin wind.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the light and the rainbow bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry us gently,
Bring us safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, under open sky,
Kids count clouds as the cars roll by,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

Maybe the shopping centre, maybe one more store,
Maybe flat-pack boxes and then one thing more,
Maybe the toy shop, glowing with light,
Tiny hands holding treasures tight.

Airport road calling with suitcase dreams,
Morning planes and silver beams,
Someone is leaving, someone comes home,
But on this road, no one is alone.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the light and the rainbow bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry us gently,
Bring us safely home tonight.

Are we nearly there?
Can we see the sea?

Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

Then the rainbow bends where the clouds have gone,
And the wet road shines in the golden sun,
The Dublin hills rise soft and blue,
And the whole day opens for a mile or two.

Maybe to Bray where the sea winds play,
Pebbles and waves and a bright cold day,
Maybe Wicklow, where the mountains stand,
Green like a blessing over Ireland’s land.

So keep the angry horn away,
Give patience to the travelling day,
For every car beneath the sky
Has tired hearts and dreams inside.

Guard every driver, calm each mind,
Leave every rush and fear behind,
Through Dublin light and Ireland’s green,
Let mercy travel unseen.

Evening falling, soft lights burn,
The road brings back those who return,
Past exits, bridges, signs and streams,
Back to the houses, back to the dreams.

Children sleeping, city lights low,
M-fifty humming with a gentle glow,
A circle drawn through road and stone,
A thousand journeys leading home.

M-fifty, M-fifty, road around the city,
Through the light and the rainbow bright,
M-fifty, M-fifty, carry us gently,
Bring us safely home tonight.

Round Dublin’s shoulder, under open sky,
Kids count stars as the cars roll by,
Through every lane and every sign,
A quiet mercy travels the line.

M-fifty, M-fifty, hearts awake,
Through every turn that families take,
From airport lights to the Wicklow sky,
Your road goes on in Ireland’s light.

Through sun and light, by road and stone,
M-fifty, bring us home.

From Dublin light to the western foam,
Ireland wakes and calls us home,
Road and river, field and rain,
Old names rising soft again.

Not only castles, not only fame,
But every small remembered name,
A townland road, a chapel bell,
A quiet place where stories dwell.

And the roads remember,
And the waters know,
The small dear places
Where old songs grow.

Ireland, Ireland, through wind and rain,
Through road and river, loss and gain,
From county fields to the restless sea,
Your quiet heart still sings in me.

Ireland, Ireland, in light and storm,
In ruined stone and hearth still warm,
Through every shore and every lane,
Your living song remains, remains.

By Shannon waters running deep,
Where hidden heartlands softly keep,
By Galway wind and Sligo’s sky,
The old roads carry voices by.

There’s Cork in the south with harbour light,
And Dublin streets in morning bright,
Through fields and towns, through work and song,
Every county carries memory on.

Ireland, Ireland, through wind and rain,
Through road and river, loss and gain,
From county fields to the restless sea,
Your quiet heart still sings in me.

Ireland, Ireland, in light and storm,
In ruined stone and hearth still warm,
Through every shore and every lane,
Your living song remains, remains.

Old monastery stones still face the rain,
And chapel bells call hope again,
Through broken walls and weathered years,
The land has learned to carry tears.

There were years of hunger, years of pain,
Ships that left through mist and rain,
But hope crossed the ocean, far from home,
And still returned in prayer and song.

Not every light is bright and loud,
Some shine softly through the cloud,
Christ-light hidden, calm and small,
Still keeping mercy over all.

In humble homes and quiet grace,
In every road and resting place,
By work and prayer, by loss and dawn,
The older light still carries on.

So gather stories, one by one,
From road and river, rain and sun,
A bridge, a school, a field, a quay,
A path beside an elder tree.

For every place, both near and far,
Has held the light of who we are,
And every name, though small and long,
Can find its voice inside a song.

Ireland, Ireland, through wind and rain,
Through road and river, loss and gain,
From county fields to the restless sea,
Your quiet heart still sings in me.

Ireland, Ireland, in light and storm,
In ruined stone and hearth still warm,
Through every shore and every lane,
Your living song remains, remains.

Every county, every lane,
Every harbour, field, and name,
From Dublin light to Atlantic foam,
Ireland sings her children home.

Through road and memory, rain and flame,
Ireland still remembers her name.

By the Barrow water where the soft winds run,
Carlow wakes in the morning sun,
Bridges rise where the old roads meet,
And the river keeps time beneath the street.

Not a town of empty fame,
But a place where stone remembers name,
Through field and rain, through road and door,
The Barrow carries Carlow more.

And the river remembers,
And the old stones know,
The quiet hands of Ireland
Where deep roots grow.

Carlow, Carlow, by the Barrow’s flow,
Where river songs and old stones grow,
Through castle wall and fields of green,
You hold more years than eyes have seen.

Carlow, Carlow, under Irish skies,
Where broken stone can still arise,
By river, cross, and weathered tree,
Your quiet heart still sings to me.

Brownshill stands in the open field,
A silent stone the years have sealed,
No magic tale, no shadowed claim,
Only earth that remembers a name.

Carlow Castle by the river side,
Broken walls with a wounded pride,
Though towers fell and stones were torn,
The town still woke to another morn.

Carlow, Carlow, by the Barrow’s flow,
Where river songs and old stones grow,
Through castle wall and fields of green,
You hold more years than eyes have seen.

Carlow, Carlow, under Irish skies,
Where broken stone can still arise,
By river, cross, and weathered tree,
Your quiet heart still sings to me.

By Liberty Tree the old years call,
Through memory stone and weathered wall,
Seventeen ninety-eight still stays,
A sorrow carried through the days.

Not to wake old anger again,
But to honour courage, loss, and pain,
For every town with tears behind
Can keep a mercy in its mind.

Where bells once called and prayers were made,
Where College walls held light and shade,
Christ-light moved through the learning years,
Through honest work and hidden tears.

Not every faith must loudly cry,
Some keep hope beneath the sky,
By book and stone, by prayer and rain,
The old light rises again.

Old factory hands and morning steam,
Kept alive a working dream,
Streets have changed, and years have gone,
But Carlow’s river still moves on.

Now art lights rise and voices meet,
With music walking through the street,
From VISUAL halls to festival air,
The town still gathers its stories there.

Carlow, Carlow, by the Barrow’s flow,
Where river songs and old stones grow,
Through castle wall and fields of green,
You hold more years than eyes have seen.

Carlow, Carlow, under Irish skies,
Where broken stone can still arise,
By river, cross, and weathered tree,
Your quiet heart still sings to me.

Carlow, Carlow, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lane,
From Brownshill stone to the open sky,
Your song goes on in Ireland’s light.

By the Barrow water, through rain and flame,
Carlow remembers its ancient name.

In the heart of Offaly where the low roads meet,
Tullamore wakes with the rain on the street,
By the Grand Canal where the waters run slow,
Old boats once carried what the town would grow.

From warehouse walls to the harbour stone,
The town learned how to stand on its own,
Not loud with pride, not dressed in gold,
But strong in the stories the waters hold.

And the canal remembers,
And the old stones know,
The quiet hands of Ireland
Where deep roots grow.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Once fire came falling from the sky,
And the town saw smoke where the bright roofs lie,
But ash could never claim it all,
For broken streets can rise from fall.

So the phoenix found the morning air,
Over market road and chapel prayer,
And every scar the old town wore
Became a sign of Tullamore.

And the years keep turning,
And the waters flow,
But the flame once hidden
Still begins to glow.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Near Durrow’s cross where the old trees stand,
Columcille’s prayer still touches the land,
Gospel pages, guarded in light,
Carried Christ through the Irish night.

Not every town must shout its creed,
Some keep faith like a hidden seed,
By stone and Scripture, wind and rain,
The old prayer rises again.

Charleville waits in the wooded shade,
With Gothic stone where the years are laid,
And old craft lives in the working air,
Through patient hands and honest care.

But more than trade, and more than fame,
A living town still bears the name,
In every lane and every field,
There is a hope that would not yield.

When August fields begin to sing,
And cattle, horses, families bring
The old show life to the open plain,
The rural heart beats strong again.

Children laugh where the banners fly,
Clouds move soft through an Offaly sky,
And through the noise of the bright fair day,
The town still knows its older way.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Tullamore, Tullamore, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lane,
From Durrow’s cross to the open sky,
Your song goes on in Ireland’s light.

By the Grand Canal, through flame and rain,
Tullamore rises again.

Mountmellick - White Threads of Ireland

By the Owenass River where the soft rains fall,
Mountmellick wakes by the old mill wall,
Once wheels were turning and the chimneys cried,
When work and trade filled the town with pride.

They called you Manchester of Ireland then,
With mills and looms and working men,
But every town that rises high
Must learn how seasons pass it by.

And the river remembers,
And the old stones keep,
The quiet hands of Ireland
Where the roots run deep.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, town of thread and rain,
You stitched your light through loss and pain,
White on white, and heart to hand,
A gentle song from Ireland’s land.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, by the river’s flow,
Where old mills sleep and memories grow,
Through every stitch and every line,
Your quiet beauty still can shine.

Quaker hands in a working town,
Built the mills and laid work down,
Spinning, weaving, day by day,
Turning hardship into bread and clay.

Then famine came with a bitter breath,
And many roads were marked by death,
The people left, the silence stayed,
And old bright streets began to fade.

But the looms kept whispering,
And the candles burned,
In simple rooms of labour
Where the young hands learned.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, town of thread and rain,
You stitched your light through loss and pain,
White on white, and heart to hand,
A gentle song from Ireland’s land.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, by the river’s flow,
Where old mills sleep and memories grow,
Through every stitch and every line,
Your quiet beauty still can shine.

Johanna’s thread in the morning air,
Leaves and flowers, fine and fair,
Girls once learned by needle and page,
Passing light from age to age.

Whitework blooms where the stories stay,
Like Irish flowers that will not fade,
And still today the hands return,
To let the quiet beauty burn.

At Ivy Chapel the earth lies still,
With famine graves beside the hill,
And at the town’s far end they remember the year
When rebel blood was answered with fear.

Seventeen ninety-eight still calls,
Through memorial stone and weathered walls,
Not to stir old hatred again,
But to honour sorrow, courage, and pain.

Now some say the town is tired and worn,
A place where old dreams wait for dawn,
But tired streets can still hold grace,
And Christ-light lives in a humble place.

Work and prayer, river and thread,
Keep hope alive where tears were shed,
In every hand, in every seam,
Mountmellick still remembers its dream.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, town of thread and rain,
You stitched your light through loss and pain,
White on white, and heart to hand,
A gentle song from Ireland’s land.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, by the river’s flow,
Where old mills sleep and memories grow,
Through every stitch and every line,
Your quiet beauty still can shine.

Mountmellick, Mountmellick, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lane,
From whitework flowers to the open sky,
Your song goes on where Ireland lies.

By the Owenass River, through thread and flame,
Mountmellick remembers its quiet name.

Athy - The River Remembers

Where the Barrow bends and the waters run slow,
Athy wakes where the old roads go,
By the ford and the canal’s quiet line,
The river keeps the memory of time.

Boats once moved through the morning grey,
Carrying work on the Dublin way,
By harbour stone and warehouse door,
The water shaped the heart of Athy more.

And the river remembers,
And the old stones know,
The quiet roads of Ireland
Where deep roots grow.

Athy, Athy, where the Barrow flows,
Through field and rain your old song grows,
By castle wall and canal shore,
The river still remembers more.

Athy, Athy, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
Through road and water, cross and stone,
You keep a song that is all your own.

White’s Castle stands where the crossing lay,
Guarding the river and the road by day,
Old walls rose where the border ran,
And fire once tested the heart of man.

The walls are gone, but the stories stay,
In narrow streets and the evening grey,
A town may bend through storm and flame,
Yet still rise up and keep its name.

And the stones keep speaking,
And the waters hear,
A song through the centuries,
Still drawing near.

Athy, Athy, where the Barrow flows,
Through field and rain your old song grows,
By castle wall and canal shore,
The river still remembers more.

Athy, Athy, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
Through road and water, cross and stone,
You keep a song that is all your own.

Where old friars prayed and the candles shone,
Christ-light lived when the years moved on,
By stone and Scripture, wind and rain,
The old prayer rises again.

Not every town must shout its creed,
Some keep faith like a hidden seed,
By Barrow water, field and sky,
The Gospel breathes and does not die.

The famine years left shadows deep,
And workhouse walls learned how to weep,
Seventeen ninety-eight still calls,
Through memory stones and weathered walls.

Not to wake old hatred again,
But to honour sorrow, courage, and pain,
For every town with tears behind
Can still hold mercy in its mind.

From Kildare fields to the polar night,
Shackleton carried a fearless light,
And Athy keeps that explorer’s name,
Like courage guarded through ice and flame.

Now walkers pass where the barges lay,
And bicycles shine in the morning grey,
The Blueway bends where the waters gleam,
And Athy still follows its river dream.

Athy, Athy, where the Barrow flows,
Through field and rain your old song grows,
By castle wall and canal shore,
The river still remembers more.

Athy, Athy, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
Through road and water, cross and stone,
You keep a song that is all your own.

Athy, Athy, hearts awake,
Through every bridge and field and lane,
From Barrow water to the open sky,
Your song goes on where Ireland lies.

By the old ford road, through rain and flame,
Athy remembers its quiet name.