Soken:
Sad are the homes around Garryowen, since they lost their gal land pride,
but the banshee cry, rings every vale along the Shannon side, that city of the
ancient walls, the broken treaty stone, on dying fame surrounds your name Sean
South From Garryowen.
It was on a dreary new year s eve as the shades of night came down,
A lorry load of volunteers approched the border town,
//
There was men from Dublin and from Cork,Fermanagh and Tyrone,
//
And their leader was a Limerick man Sean South from Garryowen
And as they moved along the streets up to the barrack door,
They scorned the danger they might face,the fate that lay in store,
//
They were fighting for old Ireland,to claim their very own,
//
And the foremost of that gallant band was South from Garryowen.
But the sergent foiled their daring plan,he spied them through the door,
Then the Sten guns and the rifles a hail of death did pour,
//
And when that auful night was past,two men lay as cold as stone,
//
There was one from near the border,and one from Garryowen.
No more he ll hear the seagull cry o re the murmuring Shannon tide,
For he fell beneath a Northern sky,brave Hanlon by his side,
//
They have gone to join that gallant band of Plunkett Pearse and Tone,
//
A martyr for old Ireland,Sean South from Garryowen
The lick:
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