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Sweet Emyvale by Charles McCluskey I have wandered far away, And shall ever mourn the day, That misfortune made me stray, From Innisfail. In my dreams I see it still, As when sitting on the Hill, High above the old corn mill, Sweet Emyvale. Sparkling gem, my heart’s delight, Precious jewel ever bright, Nature’s tonic for the sight, This verdant dale. Here the soft pure fragrant air, Keeps the colleens fresh and fair, And blithe youth beyond compare, Sweet Emyvale. When the lark sang high above, And wild nature whispered love, Grateful hearts in rapture wove, A lyric tale. As light woolpacks skimmed the sky, Silvery trout were jumping high, In the river flowing by, Sweet Emyvale. In those little hills around, Wherein tiny lakes abound, Tranquil peace on earth is found, In every dale. When the golden furze in bloom, Shedding mists of rich perfume, Regal beauty you assume, Sweet Emyvale. Now at last I’m coming home, Never more from you I’ll roam, Darling village, gem supreme, Of Innisfail. Here in peace I shall remain, And will soothe my weary brain, On your velvet bosom green, Sweet Emyvale Mollie Treanor I am going home to Ireland, To the hills of Carrickroe, Near the mountain bogs of Bragan, Where the purple heathers grow. There I’ll see sweet Mollie Treanor, When the evening sun is low, A nice welcome she’ll have for me, In the glen at Carrickroe. A nice welcome she’ll have for me In the glen at Carrickroe. Now I’m longing to be with her, Round the lanes of Carrickroe, It seems ages since I left her, Some mad notion made me go. She’s a rosebud, yes the fairest, That the Summer breezes blow, Now I’m coming, Mollie Treanor, Heading straight for Carrickroe, Yes, I’m coming, Mollie Treanor, Heading straight for Carrickroe. You’re my darling, Mollie Treanor, And you ever will be so, With those dancing eyes of laughter, You’re the pride of Carrickroe. Now I’m going home to Ireland, Let the winds blow high or low, To marry Mollie Treanor, In the Church at Carrickroe, To marry Mollie Treanor, In the Church at Carrickroe. Composed by Charlie McCluskey and published in 1956 My Heart’s in County Monaghan. My heart’s in County Monaghan, Where it’s sheltered by Tyrone, The home of the McKenna Clan, And many an Altar stone. I loved to climb its little hills, In the happy days of youth, And linger round the old corn mills, In the winding lanes of Truagh. The joy of life was in my heart, As I wandered there alone. Where rabbits through thorn hedges dart, And the fledgling birds have gone. The lark’s blithe note rang in the sky, As the sun was breaking through, Turf smoke, in curling waves, waft high, From the cosy homes of Truagh. Beside a gate the friendly cow, In her pasture rich and green, Along the lane the grunting sow, Comes a prowling on the scene. Spring, when little birds are nesting, I can never hasten through, For my eyes keep ever feasting, On the flowery lanes of Truagh. The Mountain Stream by Scarna town, Over rocks, through wooded glen, With noisy haste, comes tumbling down, Losing speed through Tully fen. They linger still, those days in mind, Bringing back the joys of youth, The peace serene, ‘mongst people kind, In the ‘Old Green Woods of Truagh’. Composed by Charlie McCluskey in 1951 and published in 1956
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All Content Copyright emyvale.net
Sweet Emyvale by Charles McCluskey I have wandered far away, And shall ever mourn the day, That misfortune made me stray, From Innisfail. In my dreams I see it still, As when sitting on the Hill, High above the old corn mill, Sweet Emyvale. Sparkling gem, my heart’s delight, Precious jewel ever bright, Nature’s tonic for the sight, This verdant dale. Here the soft pure fragrant air, Keeps the colleens fresh and fair, And blithe youth beyond compare, Sweet Emyvale. When the lark sang high above, And wild nature whispered love, Grateful hearts in rapture wove, A lyric tale. As light woolpacks skimmed the sky, Silvery trout were jumping high, In the river flowing by, Sweet Emyvale. In those little hills around, Wherein tiny lakes abound, Tranquil peace on earth is found, In every dale. When the golden furze in bloom, Shedding mists of rich perfume, Regal beauty you assume, Sweet Emyvale. Now at last I’m coming home, Never more from you I’ll roam, Darling village, gem supreme, Of Innisfail. Here in peace I shall remain, And will soothe my weary brain, On your velvet bosom green, Sweet Emyvale Mollie Treanor I am going home to Ireland, To the hills of Carrickroe, Near the mountain bogs of Bragan, Where the purple heathers grow. There I’ll see sweet Mollie Treanor, When the evening sun is low, A nice welcome she’ll have for me, In the glen at Carrickroe. A nice welcome she’ll have for me In the glen at Carrickroe. Now I’m longing to be with her, Round the lanes of Carrickroe, It seems ages since I left her, Some mad notion made me go. She’s a rosebud, yes the fairest, That the Summer breezes blow, Now I’m coming, Mollie Treanor, Heading straight for Carrickroe, Yes, I’m coming, Mollie Treanor, Heading straight for Carrickroe. You’re my darling, Mollie Treanor, And you ever will be so, With those dancing eyes of laughter, You’re the pride of Carrickroe. Now I’m going home to Ireland, Let the winds blow high or low, To marry Mollie Treanor, In the Church at Carrickroe, To marry Mollie Treanor, In the Church at Carrickroe. Composed by Charlie McCluskey and published in 1956 My Heart’s in County Monaghan. My heart’s in County Monaghan, Where it’s sheltered by Tyrone, The home of the McKenna Clan, And many an Altar stone. I loved to climb its little hills, In the happy days of youth, And linger round the old corn mills, In the winding lanes of Truagh. The joy of life was in my heart, As I wandered there alone. Where rabbits through thorn hedges dart, And the fledgling birds have gone. The lark’s blithe note rang in the sky, As the sun was breaking through, Turf smoke, in curling waves, waft high, From the cosy homes of Truagh. Beside a gate the friendly cow, In her pasture rich and green, Along the lane the grunting sow, Comes a prowling on the scene. Spring, when little birds are nesting, I can never hasten through, For my eyes keep ever feasting, On the flowery lanes of Truagh. The Mountain Stream by Scarna town, Over rocks, through wooded glen, With noisy haste, comes tumbling down, Losing speed through Tully fen. They linger still, those days in mind, Bringing back the joys of youth, The peace serene, ‘mongst people kind, In the ‘Old Green Woods of Truagh’. Composed by Charlie McCluskey in 1951 and published in 1956