- I’ll tell me Ma
- The Wild Rover
- All For Me Grog
- Boolavogue
- I Once Loved a Llass
- The Star of the County Down
- Down by the Glenside
- Spancil Hill
- Botany Bay
- Molly Malone
- The Rising of the Moon
- Skibbereen
- The Foggy Dew
- The Wearing of the Green
- The Bard of Armagh
- St. Patrick was a Gentleman
- Poor Paddy Works on the Railway
- The Parting Glass
I’ll tell me Ma
I’ll tell me Ma when I go home,
the boys won’t leave the girls alone.
They pull my hair, they steal my comb,
but that’s alright ‘til I get home.
She is handsome, she is pretty,
she is the belle of Belfast city.
She is courting one, two, three,
please, won’t you tell me, who is she?
Albert Mooney says he loves her,
all the boys are fighting for her.
Knock at the door and ring the bell,
saying, oh my true love, are you well?
Out she comes, white as snow,
rings on her fingers, bells on her toes.
Old Johnny Murray says she’ll die,
If she doesn’t get the fellow with the roving eye.
Let the wind and rain and hail go high,
snow come tumbling down from the sky.
She’s as nice as apple pie,
she’ll get a fellow by and by.
when she gets a lad of her own,
she won’t tell her Ma when she gets home.
Let them all come as they will,
it’s Albert Mooney she loves still.
The Wild Rover
I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,
and I’ve spent all my money on whiskey and beer.
And now I’m returning with gold in great store,
and I never will play the wild rover no more.
And it’s no, nay, never! No, nay, never, no more,
I will play the wild rover. No, never, no more!
I went into an ale-house I used to frequent,
and I told the landlady my money was spent.
I asked her for credit, she answered me “nay,
such a custom as yours I can have any day”.
I pulled from me pocket a handful of gold,
and on the round table it glittered and rolled.
She said “I have whiskeys and wines of the best,
and the words that I told you were only in jest”.
I’ll have none of your whiskeys nor fine Spanish wines,
for your words show you clearly as no friend of mine.
There’s others most willing to open a door,
to a man coming home from a far distant shore.
I’ll go home to my parents, confess what I’ve done,
and I’ll ask them to pardon their prodigal son.
And when they forgive me as oft’ times before,
I never will play the wild rover no more.
All For Me Grog
And it’s all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog,
all for me beer and tobacco.
Well I spent all my tin on the lassies drinking gin.
Far across the Western Ocean I must wander.
Where are me boots, me noggin’, noggin’ boots?
All gone for beer and tobacco.
Well the soles they are worn out, and the heels are kicked about,
and the toes are looking out for better weather.
Where is my shirt, my noggin’, noggin’ shirt?
All gone for beer and tobacco.
Well the sleeves they are worn out, and the collar’s turned about,
and the tail is looking out for better weather.
Where is by wife, my noggin’, noggin’ wife?
All gone for beer and tobacco.
Well her front it got worn out, and her eyes are looking out,
and I’m sure she’s looking out for better weather.
Well he’s sick in the head and he hasn’t gone to bed,
since first he came ashore with his plunder.
He’s seen centipedes and snakes ‘til his head is full of aches.
And we hope to take a path to way up yonder.
Boolavogue
At Boolavogue as the sun was setting,
o’er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier,
a rebel hand set the heather blazing,
and brought the neighbours from far and near.
Then Father Murphy from old Kilcormack
spurred up the rock with a war-like cry,
“Arm, arm!” he cried, “for I’ve come to lead you,
for Ireland’s freedom we’ll fight or die.”
He led us on against the coming soldiers,
the cowardly yeomen we put to fight,
‘twas at The Harrow, the boys of Wexford
showed Bookey’s regiments how men could fight,
look out fore hirelings, King George of England,
search every kingdom where breathes a slave,
for Father Murphy from County Wexford,
sweeps o’er the land like a mighty wave.
At Vinegar Hill o’er the pleasant Slaney
our heroes vainly stood back to back.
And the yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
and burned his body upon the rack.
God grant you glory brave Father Murphy,
and open heaven to all your men,
the cause that called you, may come tomorrow,
in another fight for the green again.
I Once Loved a Lass
I once loved a lass, and I loved her so well,
that I hated all others who spoke of her ill.
And now she’s rewarded me well for my love.
She has gone to be wed to another.
When I saw my love go through the church door,
with bride and bridemaidens they made a fine show.
And I followed them on with my heart full of woe,
for now she is wed to another.
When I saw my love go sit down to dine,
I sat down beside her, I poured out the wine.
And I drank to the lass that should have been mine,
for now she is wed to another.
The men of yon forest, they ask it of me,
how many strawberries grow in the salt sea.
And I ask of them back with a tear in my eye,
how many ships sail in the forest?
So dig me a grave, and dig it so deep,
and cover it over with flowers so sweet.
And I’ll turn in for to take a long sleep,
and maybe in time I’ll forget her.
So they dug him a grave and they dug it so deep,
and they covered it over with flowers so sweet.
And he’s turned in for to take a long sleep.
and maybe by now he’s forgotten.
The Star of the County Down
Near Banbridge town, in the County Down,
one morning in early July,
down a boreen green came a sweet colleen,
and she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two white feet
to the sheen of her nut-brown hair,
such a coaxing elf, I’d to check myself
to make sure I was standing there.
Chorus:
From Bantry Bay to Derry Quay
and from Galway to Dublin town.
There’s no maid I’ve seen like the sweet colleen
that I met in the County Down.
As she onward sped I shook my head,
and I gazed with a feeling rare.
And I said, says I, to a passerby,
“Who’s the maid with the nut-brown hair?”
He smiled at me, and with pride says he,
“That’s the gem of Ireland’s crown.
She’s young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She’s the star of the County Down.”
She’d a soft brown eye and a look so sly,
and a smile like a rose in June.
And you hung on each note from her lily-white throat,
as she lilted an Irish tune.
At the pattern dance you were held in a trance,
as she tripped through a reel or jig.
And when eyes she’d roll, she’d coax upon my soul,
a spud from an angry pig.
Oh I’ve travelled a bit, but I never was hit,
since my roving career began.
But fair and square I surrendered there,
to the charms of young Rosie McCann.
With a heart to let and no tenant yet,
did I meet with in shawl or gown.
But in she went and I asked no rent,
from the star of the County Down.
At the harvest fair I’ll surely be there,
And I’ll dress in my Sunday clothes.
And I’ll try sheep’s eyes, and deludhering lies,
on the heart of the nut-brown rose.
No pipe I’ll smoke, no horse I’ll yoke,
though with rust my plow turns brown.
‘Til a smiling bride by my own fireside,
sits the star of the County Down.
Down by the Glenside
‘Twas down by the Glenside, I met an old woman,
aplucking young nettles, she ne’er saw me coming,
I listened a while to the song she was humming,
Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian men.
“‘Tis fifty long years since I saw the moon beaming,
on strong manly forms, on eyes with hope gleaming.
I see them again, sure, in all my sad dreaming.”
Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian men.
“When I was a young girl, their marching and drilling,
awoke in the glenside sounds awesome and thrilling.
They loved dear old Ireland, to die they were willing.”
Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian men.
“Some died by the glenside, some died with a stranger,
and wise men have told us their cause was a failure.
But they fought for old Ireland, and they never feared danger.”
Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian men.
I passed on my way, God be praised that I met her,
be life long or short, sure, I’ll never forget her.
We may have brave men, but we’ll never have better,
Glory-o, glory-o, to the bold Fenian men.
Spancil Hill
Last night as I lay dreaming, of the pleasant days gone by,
My mind being bent on rambling and to Ireland I did fly.
I stepped on board a vision and sailed out with a will,
Till I gladly came to anchor at the Cross of Spancil Hill.
Enchanted by the novelty, delighted with the scenes,
Where in my early childhood, I often times have been.
I thought I heard a murmur, I think I hear it still,
‘Tis that little stream of water at the Cross of Spancil Hill.
And to amuse my fancy, I lay upon the ground,
Where all my school companions, in crowds assembled ‘round.
Some have grown to manhood, while more their graves did fill,
Oh I thought we were all young again, at the Cross of Spancil Hill.
It being on a Sabbath morn, I thought I heard a bell,
O’er hills and valleys sounded, in notes that seemed to tell,
That Father Dan was coming, his duty to fulfill,
At the parish church of Clooney, just one mile from Spancil Hill.
And when our duty did commence, we all knelt down in prayer,
In hopes for to be ready, to climb the Golden Stair.
And when back home returning, we danced with right good will,
To Martin Moylan’s music, at the Cross of Spancil Hill.
It being on the twenty third of June, the day before the fair,
Sure Erin’s sons and daughters, they all assembled there.
The young, the old, the stout and the bold, they came to sport and kill,
What a curious combination, at the Fair of Spancil Hill.
I went into my old home, as every stone can tell,
The old boreen was just the same, and the apple tree over the well,
I miss my sister Ellen, my brothers Pat and Bill,
Sure I only met me strangers at my home in Spancil Hill.
I called to see my neighbors, to hear what they might say,
The old were getting feeble, and the young ones turning grey.
I met with tailor Quigley, he’s as brave as ever still,
Sure he always made my breeches when I lived in Spancil Hill.
I paid a flying visit, to my first and only love,
She’s as pure as any lily, and as gentle as a dove.
She threw her arms around me, saying Mike I love you still,
She is Mack the Ranger’s daughter, the Pride of Spancil Hill.
I thought I stooped to kiss her, as I did in days of yore,
Says she Mike you’re only joking, as you often were before,
The cock crew on the roost again, he crew both loud and shrill,
And I awoke in California, far far from Spancil Hill.
But when my vision faded, the tears came in my eyes,
In hope to see that dear old spot, some day before I die.
May the Joyous King of Angels, His Choicest Blessings spill,
On that Glorious spot of Nature, the Cross of Spancil Hill.
Botany Bay
Farewell to my friends and my homeland,
Fermanagh, Tyrone, Donegal.
Farewell to the green fields of Ireland,
For today I am leaving you all.
Singing tooralli, ooralli, addity,
Singing tooralli, ooralli, ay,
Singing tooralli, ooralli, addity,
And we’re bound for Botany Bay.
There’s a captain as is our commander,
there’s a bo’sun and all the ship’s crewe,
there’s the first and the second class passengers,
knows what we poor convicts go through.
‘Tain’t leaving old Ireland we cares about,
‘tain’t ‘cos we misspells what we knows,
but because all we light-fingered gentry,
hops around with a log on our toes.
For seven long years I’ll be staying here,
for seven long years and a day.
Just for meeting a bloke down an alley,
and for taking his ticker away.
Oh, had I the wings of a turtledove.
I’d soar on my pinions so high,
slap bang to the arms of my true love,
and in her sweet presence I’d die.
Now all my young Dookies and Duchesses,
take warning from what I’ve to say:
Mind all that you own as you touches,
or you’ll find us in Botany Bay.
Molly Malone
In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.
She wheeled her wheelbarrow, through streets wide and narrow,
singing: “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!”
Alive, alive-o!, Alive, alive-o,
Singing “Cockles and mussles, alive, alive-o”
She was a fishmonger and sure it was no wonder,
for so were her father and mother before,
and they both wheeled their barrows through streets wide and narrow,
singing: “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!”
She died of a fever and no one could save her,
and that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels her barrow through streets wide and narrow,
singing: “Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!”
The Rising of the Moon
Oh, then tell me Sean O’Farrell, tell me why you hurry so.
Hush me Buchall, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all a-glow.
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon,
For the pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon.
The pikes must be together by the rising of the moon.
Oh, then tell me Sean O’Farrell, where the gathering is to be.
In an old spot by the river, right well known to you and me.
One more word for signal token, whistle up the marching tune.
With your pike upon your shoulder by the rising of the moon.
Out of many a mud wall cabin, eyes were watching through the night.
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the coming morning light.
Murmurs ran along the valley, like the banshee’s lonely croon,
and a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon.
Skibbereen
Oh father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin’s isle,
her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild.
They say it is a lovely place where-in a prince may dwell,
oh why did you abandon her? The reason to me tell.
Oh son, I loved my native land with energy and pride,
‘til a blight came o’er my crops, my sheep and cattle died.
My rent and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem,
and that’s the cruel reason that I left old Skibbereen.
Oh well do I remember the bleak December day,
the landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away.
They set my roof on fire with cursed English spleen,
and that’s another reason that I left old Skibbereen.
Your mother too, God rest her soul, fell on the snowy ground,
she fainted in her anguish seeing desolation round.
She never rose, but passed away from life to mortal dream,
and found a quiet grave, my boy, in dear old Skibbereen.
And you were only two years old and feeble was your frame,
I could not leave you with my friends, you bore your father’s name.
I wrapped you in a cothamore at the dead of night unseen,
I heaved a sigh and bade goodbye to dear old Skibbereen.
Oh father dear, the day may come when in answer to the call,
each Irishman, with feeling stern, will rally one and all.
I’ll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green,
when load and high, we’ll raise the cry: “Remember Skibbereen!”
The Foggy Dew
As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
there armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo,
but the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war,
‘twas better to die ‘neath Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud El-Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through,
while Britannia’s Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.
Oh the night fell black, and the riffle’s crack made perfidious Albion reel,
in the leaden rain seven tongues of flame did shine o’er the lines of steel.
By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to Ireland’s sons be true,
but when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew.
‘Twas England bade our wild geese go, that “small nations might be free”;
their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha,
their graves we’d keep where the Fenian’s sleep, ‘neath the shroud of the foggy dew.
Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell rang mournfully and clear,
for those who died that Easter-tide in the springing of the year.
While the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men bur few.
who bore the fight that freedom’s light might shine in the foggy dew.
As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore,
for I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see no more.
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
for slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the Foggy Dew.
The Wearing of the Green
Oh, Paddy dear, and did you hear the news that’s going round?
The Shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground.
No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colours can’t be seen,
for there’s a cruel law against the wearing of the Green.
I met with Napper Tandy and he took me by the hand.
And he said: “How’s poor old Ireland and how does she stand?”
“She’s the most distressful country that ever yet was seen,
for they’re hanging men and women for the wearing of the Green.
And if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red,
let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed.
Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw in on the sod,
and never fear, ‘twill take root there, though under foot ‘tis trod.
When the law can stop the blades of grass from growing as they grow,
and when the leaves in summer-time their colours dare not show,
then I will change the colour, I wear in my caubeen,
but ‘till that day, please God, I’ll stick to the wearing of the Green.
The Bard of Armagh
Oh list’ to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
and scorn not the strains of his old withered hands.
But remember those fingers, they once could move faster,
as he sang to the praise of his dear native land.
It was long before the shamrock, dear Ireland’s lovely emblem,
was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon’s lion’s paw,
and all the pretty colleens around me would gather,
called me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
though four score and three years have fled by since then.
Still it gives sweet reflection, as every young joys should,
for the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.
In truth I have wandered this wild world over,
yet Ireland’s a home and a dwelling for me.
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover,
be cut from the land that is trod by the free.
And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace me,
and lulls me to sleep with old ‘Erin go Bragh’,
by the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me,
then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
St. Patrick was a Gentleman
Oh, St Patrick was a gentleman, who came from decent people.
He built a church in Dublin town, and on it put a steeple.
His father was a Gallagher, his mother was a Brady;
His aunt was an O’Shaughnessy, his uncle an O’Grady.
So success attend St. Patrick’s fist, for he’s a Saint so clever;
Oh he gave the snakes and toads a twist, and banished them for ever.
The Wicklow hills are very high, and so’s the Hill of Howth, sir;
But there’s a hill much bigger still, much higher than them both, sir.
‘Twas on the top of this high hill St. Patrick preach’d his sarmint,
that drove the frogs into the bogs and banish’d all the varmint.
There’s not a mile in Ireland’s isle where dirty varmint musters,
but there he put his dear fore-foot, and murder’d them in clusters.
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop, slap-dash into the water,
and the snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter.
Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue he charm’d with sweet discources,
and dined on them at Killaloe in soups and second courses.
Where blind worms crawling in the grass disgusted all the nation,
he gave them a rise which open’d their eyes to a sense of their situation.
Poor Paddy Works on the Railway
In eighteen hundred and forty one,
my corduroy breeches I put on,
my corduroy breeches I put on,
to work upon the railway.
Filamamory, ory, ay,
I’m weary of the railway,
filamamory, ory. ay,
poor Paddy works on the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty two,
I didn’t know what I should do,
I didn’t know what I should do,
to work upon the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty three,
I sailed away across the sea,
I sailed away across the sea,
to work upon the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty four,
I landed on Columbia’s shore,
I landed on Columbia’s shore,
to work upon the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty five,
when Daniel O’Connell was still alive,
when Daniel O’Connell was still alive,
to work upon the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty six,
I made my trade to carrying bricks,
I made my trade to carrying bricks,
to work upon the railway.
In eighteen hundred and forty seven,
poor Paddy was thinking of going to heaven,
poor Paddy was thinking of going to heaven,
to work upon the railway.
The Parting Glass
O, all the money e’er I had,
I spent it in good company.
And all the harm I’ve ever done,
Alas it was to none but me.
And all I’ve done for want of wit
to mem’ry now I can’t recall.
So fill to me the parting glass,
Goodnight and joy be with you all.
O, all the comrades e’er I had,
they’re sorry for my going away,
and all the sweetheart e’er I had,
they’d wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot,
I gently rise and softly call,
that I should go and you should not.
Goodnight and joy be with you all.
If I had money enough to spend,
and leisure time to sit awhile,
there is a fair maid in this town,
that sorely has my heart beguiled.
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,
I own she has my heart in thrall.
Then fill to me the parting glass,
goodnight and joy be with you all.