“Tis often I dream of the days long ago,

    When young life in old Ireland was grand,

And I whistled and sang as I'd plough, sow or mow

    In the fields looking down on Beal Strand. 

 

You may travel elsewhere, by sea and by air,

    And roam many a fair, foreign land,

But where'er you may go, through sunshine or snow, 

    You'll find no place like lovely Beale Strand.

 

The idle and rich search here and search there, 

    For false pleasures that they say are grand;

Oh! had I but one week, the pleasure I'd seek

    Is to roam over Beale's golden strand. 

 

In the days long ago, bright with warm sunlight, 

    The ebb tide racing down by Asdee, 

The lark's song in the air, Burton Castle in Clare,

    What sweet memories they all bring to me. 

 

When the sun sank to rest away in the west, 

    And the shadows crept over the land, 

The peace and the quiet that came round with the night, 

    Sure 'twas then that I loved you Beal Strand.

 

Were I young once again, 'tis at home I'd remain, 

    Midst people so kindly and grand;

“I'd build a nice cot on that beautiful spot, 

    To live always beside you, Beal Strand. 

 

Now my end is in sight, I pray God day and night, 

    As I'll die in this far-away land, 

That my spirit shall soar o'er the old Shannon shore, 

    To look down on you, lovely Beal Strand. ”