Death Of Bill O’Dwyer, Thurles, Co. Tipperary

It was with sadness that we learned of the death, on Saturday 18th April 2020, of Mr William (Bill) O’Dwyer, Ballydavid, Mullinahone, Thurles, Co. Tipperary and formerly of Ballydonnell, Mullinahone, Thurles, Co. Tipperary.

Mr O’Dwyer passed away peacefully, following a short stay at the Sacred Heart Nursing Home, Crosspatrick, Johnstown, Co. Kilkenny.

His passing is most deeply regretted by his loving wife Mary; sons John, Willie, C.J., Aidan, and Michael; daughters Siobhan, Maire and Emer; daughter in law Olivia; sons-in-law Joe and Phil; grandchildren; sister Nellie (Tobin / Callan, Co. Kilkenny); brother Stephen; nieces; nephews; extended family; neighbours and a wide circle of friends.

Requiescat in Pace.

Funeral Arrangements

In accordance with government guidelines with regard to the current Covid-19 pandemic and public gatherings; the funeral of Mr O’Dwyer will take place in a private, family only, setting.

Ar dheis Dé go raibh a anam dilís.

The extended O’Dwyer family wish to express their appreciation for your understanding at this difficult time and have made arrangements for those wishing to send messages of condolence, to use the link shown HERE.

“My Father said thus work I’ve done, tis you my sons I want instead.
I tilled this land I made it green;

For my legacy is in these fields,
The Friesian cow a lacting sow,
An extra furrow for the Kverneland plough,
A tonne of barley; an acre of wheat,
You grew potatoes, you harvested beet,
The brown pound was earned sound,

Thus pay a bill, make it go round,
A toss for a Sherwood was hard found,

At the ‘Stack of Barley’ in our town,
No coat or cab na’re a silage grab,
You had a job to earn your next few bob.
In seventy seven the flash an steel

Your new found love a combine appeared.
A fork of lightning,

A flash of frightening,
Took seven of your cattle like an ace or a club,
In sporting love became the hub,

Your famous race horse ran in a three mile trob.
He worked his land in winter and sun,
Through many decades; the hard slog ones
Changing times days are done,

The men in vocabulary are written in stone,
This fine spring morning,

Without a warning
It’s so lonesome now your gone.”


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