Patrick J Hill


I am thinking of a dear old spot, in Ireland o’er the sea,

I see it in my dreams a lot, it still seems home to me.

There I spent my boyhood days, the glens I did explore,

While the sun beamed down its warm rays o’er the vales of Barnagore.


I trod the lanes of Mucklin, of Logg and Crawerneen,

But the days I spent round Curryquin, were the best that I have seen.

To the Silvermines with gleeful pals, we took shortcuts to school

By the glen of “Biddy Harrow”, where we lingered round the pool.


Along the road through Boherbee, to the schoolhouse on the green,

Where sex was separated, with a high stone wall between.

Old Master Bob was ready, by the blackboard with his rule

And before each test was over, I was often proved a fool.


At Sunday Mass I so recall, outside the chapel gate,

The farmers aired their worries, of crops being planted late.

The oldsters would assemble, and talk of ache or pain,

They had in joint or muscle, and blame it on the rain.


And when the Mass was over, they would meet at Jerry Ryan’s

Who ran the pub that was well stocked with whiskey, stout and wines.

They all felt quite elated as the pint and glass went round

Their jokes were all applauded and their wisdom was profound.


And when their thirst was satisfied they harnessed up the rigs

All homeward bound for dinner in sidecars, traps, and gigs.

Their horses and their masters would cut some fancy shines

And create some wild commotion as they left the Silvermines.


At Mountisland cross we gathered each Sunday afternoon,

And danced the “Ballycommon set” to the concertina’s tune.

The oldsters sat along the fence or had their pitch and toss,

Oh, many happy hours we spent around Mountisland cross.


One by one they parted from the dear old place of birth

In search of work and fortune around this great big earth.

I wonder in the twilight hours if their memories often stray

To the scenes and youthful pleasures in Tipperary far away.

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