1

There's a town at a bend of the Shannon,
That the salty tide rises to greet,
You get packet and tripe and colcannon,
Boiled eyebones and crubeens to eat, (for a treat),
And the natives polite and discerning,
Have a 'aisy-to-get-along' style,
If you go away you'll feel like returning,
No matter how distant the mile.
But when the sun sinks in the evening,
And the shadows fall on narrow streets,
The beautiful noise you are hearing,
Is the sound of the music so sweet,
In this place I call home,
Where stands the Treaty Stone,
White water roaring,
The gulls they are soaring,
O'er the rocks of old Curragour.

2

Now some say we're uncouth and uncivil,
That we're living on the 'clippin's o' tin',
And the rent-man he can go to the devil,
If he knocks, sure he won't be let in.
Now we don't have great ballet to savour,
And we don't have the Opera Grand,
And the highbrows don't lend us their favour,
Our music they don't understand.
But when the sun sinks in the evening,
And cats and dogs are fast asleep,
The poets and minstrels and dreamers,
From out of the corners do creep.
In this place I call home,
Where stands the Treaty Stone,
White water descending,
Flows on never-ending,
O'er the rocks of old Curragour.

3.

Old King William, he came to surprise us,
When he tried to break down our walls,
With slingshots and muskets and vizers,
And a load of old cannonballs,
But the women of Limerick gave warning,
And Sarsfield was mighty impressed
When he lifted the siege the next morning,
Every soldier was wearing a dress.
But now that the turmoil has ended,
And peace to this place is restored,
To the 'Walls' of our city so splendid,
They're dancing all over the world.
In this place I call home,
Where stands the Treaty Stone,
And that old Bishop's Lady,
Still haunts Drunken Thady,
O'er the rocks of old Curragour.

4

In this city that's full of eccentrics
We find an acceptable norm
With nonsensicle rhymes we call "limericks"
Where nothing 'ere runs through to form
Turning tatters of pure inspiration,
Into verses of meter and rhyme,
With words that defy explanation,
Perfectly beating in time.
But when the sun sinks in the evening,
With the children tucked safely in bed,
The poets with words they are weaving,
Strange and beautiful thoughts in your head,
In this place I call home,
Where stands the Treaty Stone,
White water cascading,
As daylight is fading,
O'er the Rocks of old Curragour.

5.

Ah the summertimes we spent out in Plassey,
Where we swam in the sweet-water brooks,
Watching chancers disport with their lassies,
And fishermen breading their hooks.
The days of my youth I remembers,
Every Saturday afternoon fine,
As we drank lemonade out of jamjars,
And ate home-made confections sublime.
And as we'd stroll home in the evening,
With the river lit up by the moon,
Every alehouse and pothouse and tavern,
Would resound to a different tune.
In this place I call home,
Where stands the Treaty Stone,
Now the salmon are leaping,
As dusk it is creeping,
O'er the rocks of old Curragour.