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THE HILLS AROUND LISTOWEL
I am an old man now, my head is grey, my bones are brittle too,
Come sit yourself down there a while and I soon will tell to you
Of the fine young lad that once I was, in the days of long ago,
When I picked the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
Yes, I was lithe and hardy then with hair as black as sloe,
We wore no shoes in summer time, we laughed in winter’s snow,
I stood tall and straight, as I now relate, but the years have taken their toll
Since I picked the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
I fished for sea trout in my lovely silver river Feale,
And from Foley’s orchard, I confess, sweet apples I did steal,
I felt pinch of thorn on an autumn morn from the Smearla to Mountcoal
As I picked the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
In the sport’s field I kicked football, as the goalposts I did guard,
I played handball in the alley and went home by Gurtinard,
In the Parson’s wood I oft times stood where my first kiss I stole
As we picked the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
From Ballygrennan twin church spires I see rising from the square
Where the castle stands defiantly beside that river fair,
The Island Racecourse to the West, I now once more behold,
While I pick the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
So there you have it, that’s my tale from Australia’s sunny clime,
At the fire of memories I’ll warm my hands, if God gives me time,
Across swirling tide and ocean wide will fly my emigrant soul
To where I picked the wild blackberries in the hills around Listowel.
© Garry McMahon
