To Lilian McArdle

The gift of music seems to soar

Above our cradled town,

It wings up from the crested bay

And from the mountains down.

From heather bells and granite hills

Comes music in the breeze,

It’s whispered in our storied streams

And through our old yew trees.


I like the song, I like the voice,

I like the pleasant face,

The note that charms like lark on high,

The child-like poise and grace.

But where, oh where, in this wide world

For music song and lore,

Could Newry’s equal ere be found?

Nowhere, Lilian Asthore.


We toast the “Clanrye Nightingale”,

Sweet songstress of the yew;

We toast the gems that now are gone

That’s mirrored back in you.

You bring us back the other days,

Their gifts in you combined

To give us joy and happiness,

To soothe the troubled mind.


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