Rare Clonmel


Farewell, farewell, my native town
That nestles in the vale
Where Slievenamon looks proudly down
On wooded hill and dale
Thy fond loved scenes that I must part
Surge round with memory’s swell
And rend with pain, an exile’s heart
When leaving Rare Clonmel

Thy mountain walks, I’ll ne’er forget
While life and light endure
And Bagwell’s Rock, I see it yet
Beside the silver Suir
That blest spot, so dear to me
Saint Patrick’s holy well
Its church and tree, in dreams I see
When far from Rare Clonmel

Oft by the wandering Anner side
At Newtown have I strayed
Or roved some gentle heart beside
’Neath Marlfield’s dim green shade
Or stopped to drink the waters clear
At nature’s fount; Wren’s Well
Oh, parting makes you still more dear
Fair scenes of Rare Clonmel

Then fill, my friends, a flowing glass
And drink ‘The Sons of Toil’
And when that sparkling toast shall pass
We’ll drink ‘Our Native Soil’
In every fight for Erin’s right
Foul tyranny to quell
First in the field and last to yield
Are the boys of Rare Clonmel

Tipperary 1

Songs of Tipperary