The last time I saw you was down at the Greeks. There was whiskey on Sunday and tears on our cheeks. You sang me a song as pure as the breeze. Blowing up the road to Glenaveigh. I sat for a while at the cross at Finnoe. Where young lovers would meet when the flowers were in bloom. Heard the men coming home from the fair at Shinrone. Their hearts in Tipperary wherever they go. Take my hand and dry your tears babe. Take my hand forget your fears babe. There's no pain there's no more sorrow. They're all gone gone in the years babe. I sat for a while by the gap in the wall. Found a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball. Heard the cards being dealt and the rosary called. And a fiddle playing Sean Dun na nGall. And the next time I see you we'll be down at the Greeks. There'll be whiskey on Sunday and tears on our cheeks. For it's stupid to laugh and it's useless to bawl. About a rusty tin can and an old hurley ball. So I walked as day was dawning. Where small birds sang and leaves were falling. Where we once watched the row boats landing. By the broad majestic Shannon.