In a fertile vale in Limerick,

Drained by the river Deel,

Nests Feenagh’s lovely village,

With her hurling men of steel,

The wild bird seeks its shady groves,

And singing proud array

When they see those boys in practice

All ready for the fray.

The rabbit and hare abound

And oft’ time seems to say

Bring home the prize you gallant boys

From out the field of play,

Cloncara’s planes and highmount groves

Likewise Kilmurry’s Glen,

Do re-echo praise in proud replays,

For Feenagh’s hurling men.

 

Pat McCarthy is the captain and plays in forward line

He’ll gain more fame while at the game

Than the Mackey’s or Tim Ryan

And in the line plays Long and ryan

Who watch the crossbar halt,

For if the ball do run or fall

To take the pass from Pat.

The Badger plays at centre-field

And pulls both high and low

And in the line behind do shine

That dashing Mossie O’

Jer Neenan too at centre-field

Of dread he has no fear,

To watch his pace while ina race

You’d think he was a deer.

Tom Twomey too you’ll not sub-due

He pulls with dashing vein,

And in the back to stem attack

Is the captains’s brother Tim,

Then tall and strong there stands our Con

The third Mac. Of the lot,

You’d stand and gaze in wild amaze

At his dashing hurling shot.

 

Farrell holds the Cul-a-baire

His courage you’d not shade

And ‘tis so nice to watch Bill Boyce

The clearance he do make

Jack Twomey plays as full wing back,

And drive along the line,

And if he’ll fail sure I go to bail,

It will not pass P. O’Brien.

Pat Lynch the Badger’s brother,

Who hails of hurling stock

His temper too it is true

It often goes amach.

And in the line there plays young Ryan

To hurling he is new,

And with the rest he won the West

Their colours white and blue

 

Ahane can boast of gallant men

Newcastle West and Croom

Killeedy too have gallant lads

With Askeaton boys and Doon

But for art and craft and swinging of ash

And dashing grand display

For championship for prize or cup

It’s Feenagh holds the sway.

So give three ringing cheers my boys

For those brave sons of toil

They played the game for naught but fame

For the sake of Auld-Lang-Syne

From North to South let each one shout

O’er valley hill and glen

Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah, Hurrah

For Feenagh’s hurling men.

 

By John Houlihan of Croagh