There's a little winding road in Tipperary,
Where the cobble-stones protrude and hurt your feet,
But I'd rather walk that road in Tipperary
Than the smoothest and widest city street.
There's a little singing stream in Tipperary,
And it chatters and it gurgles on its way;
Oh! I'd sit beside that stream in Tipperary
And listen to its music all the day.
There's a mountain, grand and noble, in Tipperary—
My heart's delight—romantic Slievenamon;
It's matchless grace adorns you, Tipperary,
As the rose adorns the bush it grows upon.
There are kindly folk in homely Tipperary,
And the stranger's always welcome on the hearth;
The heart is never lonely in Tipperary—
'Tis the home of sweet content and wholesome mirth.
So God's blessing be upon you, Tipperary,
May your joys be many and your ills be few;
May you ever thrive and prosper, Tipperary,
And your sons and daughters e'er prove staunch and true.
- M.J. Costelloe