Rockchapel by the Feale by Timothy Curtin, Glencarney.

Rockchapel On The Feale

I love to speak of my native place,
And think of it with pride.
Where first I saw the light of day,
In a cot by the roadside.
It’s there my youthful days were spent,
So joyful young and free.
But now an exile far I roam,
From Ireland clear and thee,
O time why do you hurry so,
And leave us but the past.
While life remains through far away,
Of all the places I have seen,
None to me appeal,
Like the love I have for my native spot,
Rockchapel on the Feale.

Dear Old Rock good old spot.
There were martyrs for your name,
When the village rock an altar was
And the priest in hiding came
With his dear old flock now dead and gone
To pray to him on high.
They had for light the moon and stars,
Their canopy was the sky.
The mass rock we can see it yet,
A monument to those,
Who died for Patricks light and God,
Against the foreign foe.
May they rest in peace they kept the faith
And the devil could not steal
The martyrs souls of penal day.
At Rockchapel on the Feale.

A romantic spot, with it’s woods and groves,
Where lovers did stray,
A romantic spot, with its woods and groves,
Where lovers did stray.
The birthplace of good patriots,
Who fought on their own day,
To free their native country,
From the jaws of the British lions.
The Land League was their weapon then
With Fathers Kennedy and O’Brien.
‘Tis there you’ll hear the thrushes sound
And see the wild flowers grow.
What a beauteous sight in the winter time
The oak as white as snow.
‘Tis there you’ll hear good music too
An O’Grady jig or reel.
They do not prance, they have Fitz’s dance
At Rockchapel on the Feale.


May God be good to Davie Walsh
Our dear old native tongue.
He kept alive, it never died,
The truth must be sung.
An Irish piper of some frame,
He started the first band;
When his moonlighters from Glencarney,
Paraded around the land.
The fireside crew of old I knew,
Told many a stirring tale;
Of Jack Ladrigan dressed in a suite of green,
Dublin Castel on his trail.
The Shoneens then again and again
Were met with lead and steel.
And leaders hurt it showed with blunt
Of Rockchapel on the Feale.

As I write these lines strange visions rise.
I can see my native home.
On Foley’s mountain top I stand,
Though far across the foam.
I’m looking straight towards Stagmount
Where the crab tree used to be.
I Knockatoon the fields are white,
With mushrooms I see.
I’m dreaming too of Foiladown,
Where the clustering berries grew.
My heart is aching for the boys,
The pals of old I knew.
An exile’s love for his native place
For me there is no conceal
Of days gone by with youth and joy,
At Rockchapel on the Feale.

On sweet Rockhill the sun doth shine,
The meadows are in bloom.
The mowers are getting busy,
It is the month of Juen.
Lyreneague and Knockafurtig, not forgetting Knockanebane.
I see Meentinn’s bogs around
Bedecked in cannabhan.
The chapel bell is ringing,
The children are at play.
In my mind I see a picture
Of my native spot today.
And proud I am to write of it,
And always the same shall feel.
The thought shall never leave me,
Of Rockchapel on the Feale.

Written by: Timothy D. Curtin, Glencarney.