I love the sunny shores of France
I love the Italian clime
Where beauty beams o’er fields and streams
And nature reigns sublime
I love the Alps, the winding Rhine
The classic Po and Rhone
But ten times more do I adore
The skies o’er Ballyroan

The golden sun ne’er beamed upon
A sweeter little town
The purling rill that drives the mill
Through hazel shades runs down
The Motte, high crowned with noble trees
Its origins unknown
Its silver grace illumes the plains
For miles round Ballyroan

The chapel spire high over all
Points to the crystal sky
The vesper’s chimes proclaim the time
When evening worship’s nigh
And home the weary workman hikes
His hour of toil now flown
With songs and cheer and Scully’s beer
Enlivens Ballyroan

Oh Ballyroan, my native home
Why grieve my Irish heart
Within my breast with you oppressed
I’ll act a brave man’s part
But should I die for Ireland’s cause
Like Emmett or Wolfe Tone
My last long sigh to Heaven on high
Will be for Ballyroan


Written by Thomas Hodge

Song Clip