An immigrant out here in Boston,
far far from the land of my birth,
How I long for the scenes of my boyhood,
to me they're the grandest on earth.
When 1 think of my youthful companions,
when we rambled each day at our will,
Through furze and through bracken we'd travel,
To the top of our own Tory Hill.

We would view to the far Kerry Mountains,
to the Shannon, the blue hills of Clare,
The mountains and valleys of Tipperary,
And our own Limerick City so fair,
Mid the fox, the hare and the rabbit,
From the lake, comes the curlews loud shrill,
We were there mid the beauties of nature,
On the top of our own Tory Hill.

They may sing of the great Galtee Mountains,
The Moumes, flowing down to the sea,
The pins back in sweet Connemara,
Or the Hill of Royal Tara in Meath.
For me, there is only one vision,
Of a place with a Castle and Mill,
And there standing guard o'er its people,
Is the grandest of all, Tory Hill.

I have travelled the great plains of Texas,
The Rockies, I happen to know, The Yellow Stone Park is a wonder,
And mighty Niagara also. Of all those fine places I've travelled,
for me, there was never the thrill,
That I found back at home in old Ireland,
On the top of my own Tory Hill.
My days here on earth are n'er over,
but I hope that with God's Holy Will,

I will stand once again on its glory,