I was born in the foothills of Sliabh Bhuí.
A place you all adore.
A little village in the north of Wexford
And they call it Askamore.

I recall my happy childhood
And the days I went to school,
With the Gilberts and The Gortlands,
We had the teachers for a fool.
I recall my poor old mother
She was happy at that time
And God only knows she didn't have a dime.

There is a community spirit here,
the likes you will never find
And you will see the men and women working
They will always be on your mind.
You will see the hanging baskets,
beside the graveyard wall.
You will see the lovely rockeries
As you walk into the hall
You see the flag stone buildings
As in the days of yore.
And you will surely get a welcome
In the village of Askamore.

If you pass the little chapel
There is a beauty that surrounds it
The likes you've not seen yet.
Should you hear the choir singing
Its a treat you'll not forget.

Take a right at Margo Doran's.
It will bring you to the Glen.
Where Fr. Felix found the group water
With his band of gallant men.

You don't have to go to Florida, to Spain or Italy
When you are over in the valley.
Just look up at old Sliabh Bhuí.
You will get the scent of heather,
As you hear the small birds sing,
Turning towards the the chapel,
You may hear the church bell ring.

Oh Askamore I love you,
I know I always will.
I will ask my God to make a heaven,
At the foot of Sliabh Bhuí hill.

For to see those lovely woodlands,
Where the rabbits and wild deer stray.
Yonder down the low land
There is a farmer making hay.

Have you seen the Gortland homestead.
There is a wealth of scenery all around.
And the source of the group water,
Gushing from the ground.

Take a walk up to the summit,
On a lovely sunny day.
Watch the children picking frackens,
As you go along the way.
You will see the river Slaney,
The fishermen with not a worry or a care.
And a big train whistling down the line
On her way to Rosslare.

But there is one thing that I cherish,
It gives me a thrill
For to see the harvest moon
Shine over Sliabh Bhuí Hill.

When the evening shadows fall,
Go over to the hall.
You can play a bit of squash,
The best old craic of all.

Ah but maybe you are old,
You havn't got the drive.
Well then sit down and play
An old game of 45.

Or if you are feeling poorly,
Whats wrong you cannot tell.
Go over kneel down say a prayer
Beside St. Brigids Well.

Go over to the monument
At the end of Drummond lane.
Where Fr. Murphy's brave men fought for freedom,
They had no fear of pain.

But no matter where you wander,
And no matter where you roam.
You can hear this old mountain calling,
Calling you back home.

And now matter where you wander,
And wherever you may stray.
That longing for Askamore,
Will never go away.

Oh Askamore I love you,
I know I always will.
I will ask my God to make a heaven,
At the foot of Sliabh Bhuí hill.