Verse 1 From the decks of New York’s bright-lit piers, to Chicago’s cold, proud shore, From Philly’s rowhouse lanterns to San Fran’s fogged-out door, We carried songs like luggage, and faith like a battered hymn — Irish hearts in many cities, but one beat sings from me limb. Chorus Oh Southie, me Southie, where the harbor meets the stone, Where the fathers raised their children and the young ones found a home. With fiddle, flute and bodhrán, we’ll sing as the bells ring true — Of every road that brought us here, oh Southie, what are we to do? We’ll lift a glass and lift a voice, and send our prayers to sea, For Southie is the hearth of me, and Southie keeps me free. Verse 2 There’s Galway in the stories and Cork in every cheek, A touch of Donegal stubbornness in the way the old men speak. But Boston gave us shelter when the winter pressed us thin, And Southie built the echo where the laughter lives within. Chorus Oh Southie, me Southie, where the harbor meets the stone, Where the mothers kept the candle bright and the pubs were like a throne. With fiddle, flute and bodhrán, we’ll sing as the bells ring true — Of every road that brought us here, oh Southie, what are we to do? We’ll lift a glass and lift a voice, and send our prayers to sea, For Southie is the hearth of me, and Southie keeps me free. Verse 3 Brick rowhouses and narrow lanes, and the smell of coal and brine, Castle Island in the winter, M Street steps in summer shine. Parades that paint the sidewalks green, St. Patrick’s proud and loud, The banners march like olden days and every face stands proud. Bridge We learned to swear in two old tongues — the Gaelic and the street, We learned to mend each other when the day had worn our feet. There’s graves in Connacht that call us, and letters still unread, But we made our saints in Southie, where our kin have lived and bled. Verse 4 My da’ he worked the long-shore dawns, his palms were knot and rope, My ma’ she kept the fire alive with stories and with hope. We prayed in crowded churches, we danced in crowded rooms, We kept the old tunes ringing out to chase away the gloom. Chorus Oh Southie, me Southie, where the harbor meets the stone, Where the children learn their lineage and the old men keep their tone. With fiddle, flute and bodhrán, we’ll sing as the bells ring true — Of every road that brought us here, oh Southie, what are we to do? We’ll lift a glass and lift a voice, and send our prayers to sea, For Southie is the hearth of me, and Southie keeps me free. Tag (soft, lingering) So raise your hand to harbor sky, and bless the path we trod, For every Irish heart in America still finds a way to God. But if you ask me where I’m from, with pride I’ll say with grin — From Southie of old Boston, where the Gaelic found a kin.