Tullamore in Song

In the heart of Offaly where the low roads meet,
Tullamore wakes with the rain on the street,
By the Grand Canal where the waters run slow,
Old boats once carried what the town would grow.

From warehouse walls to the harbour stone,
The town learned how to stand on its own,
Not loud with pride, not dressed in gold,
But strong in the stories the waters hold.

And the canal remembers,
And the old stones know,
The quiet hands of Ireland
Where deep roots grow.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Once fire came falling from the sky,
And the town saw smoke where the bright roofs lie,
But ash could never claim it all,
For broken streets can rise from fall.

So the phoenix found the morning air,
Over market road and chapel prayer,
And every scar the old town wore
Became a sign of Tullamore.

And the years keep turning,
And the waters flow,
But the flame once hidden
Still begins to glow.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Near Durrow’s cross where the old trees stand,
Columcille’s prayer still touches the land,
Gospel pages, guarded in light,
Carried Christ through the Irish night.

Not every town must shout its creed,
Some keep faith like a hidden seed,
By stone and Scripture, wind and rain,
The old prayer rises again.

Charleville waits in the wooded shade,
With Gothic stone where the years are laid,
And old craft lives in the working air,
Through patient hands and honest care.

But more than trade, and more than fame,
A living town still bears the name,
In every lane and every field,
There is a hope that would not yield.

When August fields begin to sing,
And cattle, horses, families bring
The old show life to the open plain,
The rural heart beats strong again.

Children laugh where the banners fly,
Clouds move soft through an Offaly sky,
And through the noise of the bright fair day,
The town still knows its older way.

Tullamore, Tullamore, rise from the flame,
The phoenix still carries your name,
Through fire and water, through road and rain,
Your heart comes back to life again.

Tullamore, Tullamore, under Irish skies,
Where old hope falls and still can rise,
By canal and cross, by field and door,
Your song goes on, Tullamore.

Tullamore, Tullamore, hearts awake,
Through every road and field and lane,
From Durrow’s cross to the open sky,
Your song goes on in Ireland’s light.

By the Grand Canal, through flame and rain,
Tullamore rises again.