A Poem by Gary McMahon of Newcastle West

To a town in County Limerick, where the river Arra flows,
My heart takes flight, each day and night, at work or in repose,
Cross sundering seas, fond memories of the place that I love best,
To roam again each hill and glen, round my own Newcastle West.

From Barnagh gap spread like a map, I see Limerick, Cork and Clare,
The Ashford Hills and Phelans Mill, the verdant Golden Vale,
I hear the sound of beagle hound, put fox and hare to the test,
And in reverie I can clearly see my own Newcastle West.

And often in the evening when the summer sun went down,
With rod and reel I fished the Deel, a mile outside the town,
Through salty tears and lonely years, my heart ached in my breast,
As I laid my head, on a  foreign bed, far from Newcastle West.

Once more the clash of hurley ash re-echoes in my ears,
As I recall my comrades all, when I now roll back the years,
On the playing field we ne'er would yield and we always gave of our best,
To bring  honour  bright to the black and white of our own Newcastle West.

Through Nash's lane to the old demense, where my love she gave a sigh,
In the grove of Oak her voice it  broke, as we kissed our last goodbye,
"A stor mo chroi, no more I'll see, your going just like the rest,
And you never will return again to your own Newcastle West."

So I'll say slan to fair Knockane, Gortboy, likewise I'll greet,
To Boherbee and sweet South Quay, Churchtown and Maiden Street,
But God is good and I'm sure he would grant an exiles last request,
And let me die 'neath a Limerick sky in my own Newcastle West

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