Stood tall, pick in hand, in Ballykillowen,
Gath’ring winter turf, turning over stone,
Moving wood and earth, in a place our own,
One child of many, and all of them grown.

Work’d across the sea, suffering few fools,
He served his country; fed as a granger.
Man of telecom, white van filled with tools,
Connecting the towns, meeting no stranger.

To raise his children, he did all he could,
Hoping for more; education, and class.
The troubles of life, against storm he stood,
Financial collapse, no more parting glass.

So to my father; who loved a Western,
Rest now as you can, ‘til sunrise again.