ACTUAL DEATH:
All for the Bull
Are You Ready for a War?
Bard of Armagh, The
Bloody Well Dead
Cruiscin Lan
Danny Boy
The Devil’s Dead
Fiddler’s Green
Finnegan’s Wake
Glenndalough Saint, The (St. Kevin)
Frog in the Well, The
Hiring Fair, The (Salt)
Irish Ballad (Rickety Tickety Tin)
Irish Rover, The
Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye
Kevin Barry
Mermaid, The
Me Grandfather Died
Minstrel Boy, The
Old Woman from Wexford, The
Paddy Murphy
Roddy McCorley
Rosin the Beau
She Moved Through the Fair
Sweet Molly Malone
Weela Wallia
Wexford Mummer’s Song
William
Bloat
Wind that Shakes the Barley, The
EXILE
& LEAVING --
AMERICAN/AUSTRALIAN "DEATH":
Black Velvet Band, The
Fields of Athenry (?)
Goodbye Mick
Goodbye Musheen Durkin
Mary from Dungloe
Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore
Wild Colonial Boy
NOT IRISH!
Bonnie Earl of Moray, The
Captain Kidd
Dr.
Price
Lord Randal
Miss Bailey
MacCrimmon’s Lament
My Son David
Omie Wise
Tom Dooley
Saint, A (No Bones About It)
Streets of Laredo, The
Twa Corbies
Waltzing Matilda
With Her Head Tucked Underneath Her Arm
All for the Bull
Words: Janet Cornwell; Tune: All for Me Grog
What
is the Bull, the bonny, bonny Bull,
The Bull that we all know in
Tara?
Said the Queen unto the King,
“I’ve more
bull than you
can
sling! —
And we’ll sling it all the way to
Connemara.”
(Chorus)
And
it’s all for the Bull, the bonny, bonny Bull,
All for a
Bull out of Ulster,
That our Queen, the royal Medb,
her
command to us she gave,
For to field the biggest army we could
muster!
Where
is my sword, my noggin, noggin sword?
Gone for a Bull out of
Ulster!
To the battlefield it went;
now the blade is badly
bent,
And
between the blood and sweat,
it’s gotten rusted.
Where
is my spear, my noggin, noggin spear?
Gone for a Bull out of
Ulster!
Oh, the point and shaft are broke
where I drove it
through the cloak
Of a great Ulidian bloke, to cut his bluster.
Where
is my shield, my noggin, noggin shield?
Gone for a Bull out of
Ulster!
Oh, I took it to the war;
now it’s soaked in
guts and gore,
And most every part is tore and bent and busted.
Now
I’m cut in the head, and half my friends are dead,
Gone
for a Bull out of Ulster!
But
for glory that we had, we could never long be sad,
And
we’ll find more fightin’ lads to fill the roster!
Are You Ready for a War?
From the Clancy Brothers
Are
you ready for a war, for we are the English?
Are you ready for a
war?
For we are the English soldiers!
Yes
we're ready for a war, for we are the Irish!
Yes we're ready for
a war,
For we are the Irish soldiers!
Now
we only have one eye, for we are the English.
Now we only have
one eye,
For we are the English soldiers
Now
we have no eyes at all, for we are the Irish.
Now we have no
eyes at all,
For we are the Irish soldiers.
Now
we only have one arm, for we are the English.
Now we only have
one arm,
For we are the English soldiers.
Now
we have no arms at all, for we are the Irish.
Now we have no
arms at all,
For we are the Irish soldiers.
Now
we only have one leg, for we are the English.
Now we only have
one leg,
For we are the English soldiers.
Now
we have no legs at all, for we are the Irish.
Now we have no
legs at all,
For we are the Irish soldiers.
Now
we are all dead & gone, for we are the English.
Now we are
all dead and gone,
For we are the English soldiers.
Now
we're all alive again, for we are the Irish!
Now we're all alive
again,
For we are the Irish soldiers!
[Spoken:]
Up
the long ladder and down the short rope,
To Hell with King Billy
and God bless the Pope!
If that doesn't do it, we'll tear him in
two,
And send him to Hell with his red white and blue!
The Bard of Armagh
F rom the singing of Tommy Makem
Oh
list to the lay
of a poor Irish harper,
And scorn not the
strains
of his old, withered hands,
But remember his
fingers,
they once could move sharper,
To raise up the
memory
of his dear native land.
At
a fair or a wake, I could twist my shillelagh,
Or
trip through a jig with my brogues
bound with
straw.
And
all the pretty colleens in the village or the valley
Loved their
bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
Oh,
how I long to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score &
three years
have flitted since then;
But they bring sweet
reflections,
as every young joy should,
For
the merry hearted boys make the best of old men.
And
when sergeant death
in his cold arms shall embrace me,
And
lull me to sleep with sweet “Erin go bragh,”
By the
side of my Kathleen,
my young wife, then place me—
Then
forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
Bloody Well Dead
Look
at the coffin, with golden handles,
Isn't
it grand, boys, to be bloody-well dead?
Ch:
Let's
not have a sniffle,
Let's have a bloody-good cry!
And
always remember, the longer you live,
The
sooner you'll bloody-well die.
Look at the flowers, all bloody withered,….
Look at the mourners, bloody-great hypocrites,….
Look at the preacher, bloody drunk pederast,,…
Look at the choir boys, bloody big tonsils,.…
Look at the widow, bloody-great female,,…
Look at the tombstone, bloody great boulder,.…
Cruiscin Lan
Let
the farmer praise his grounds,
let the hunter praise his
hounds,
Letthe shepherd praise his sweetly scented lawn;
But
I, more wise than they,
spend each happy night and day
With
my darlin' little cruiscin lán,
lán, lán,
Oh,
gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán.
Ch:
Oh,
gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín,
Slainte
geal Mauverneen,
Gradh
mo chroide mo cruiscín lán, lán, lán,
Oh,
gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán.
Immortal
and divine, great Bacchus, god of wine
Create me by adoption
your own son.
In hopes that you'll comply,
that my glass
shall ne'er run dry
Nor my darlin' little cruiscan lán,
lán, lán,
Oh,
gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán.
And
when cruel Death appears,
in a few but happy years,
To
say, “Oh, won’t you come along with me?”
I'll
say, "Begone, you knave!
for King Bacchus gave me leave
To
take another cruiscan lán,
lán, lán,
Oh,
gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán.
Then
fill your glasses high,
let's not part with lips so dry,
For
the lark now proclaims it is the dawn;
And
since we can't remain
may we shortly meet again,
To
fill another cruiscín lán, lán, lán
To
fill another cruiscín lán.
Danny Boy
Lyrics by Frederic Weatherly, tune traditional
Oh,
Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling,
From glen to glen,
and down the mountainside;
The
summer's gone, and all the leaves are falling,
'Tis
you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But
come ye back when summer's in the
meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
'Tis
I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow:
Oh, Danny boy, oh, Danny
boy, I love you so.
And
if you come, and all the flowers are dying,
If I am dead, as
dead I well may be,
I pray you'll find the place where I am
lying,
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.
And
I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me,
And oh, my
grave will warmer, sweeter be;
And you will bend and tell me
that you love me,
And
I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.
The Devil’s Dead
Some
say the devil’s dead,
the devil’s dead, the devil’s
dead,
Some say the devil’s dead, and buried in
Killarney.
More say he rose again, more say he rose again,
More
say he rose again, and married Katie Darney.
Ch:
Feed
the hens and milk the cows,
Milk the cows, milk the cows,
Feed
the hens and milk the cows,
So early in the morning.
Katie,
she is tall and thin, tall and thin, tall and thin,
Katie,
she is tall and thin, she likes a drop of brandy.
Drinks
it in the bed at night,
drinks it in the bed at night,
Drinks
it in the bed at night,
it makes her nice and randy
M
y wife, she has a hairy thing,
a hairy thing, a hairy thing,
My
wife, she has a hairy thing,
she showed it to me Sunday.
She
bought it in the furrier shop,
she bought it in the furrier
shop,
She
bought it in the furrier shop;
it’s going back on Monday.
Some
say the devil’s dead,
the devil’s dead, the devil’s
dead,
Some say the devil’s dead,
and buried in
Killarney.
More say he rose again, more say he rose again,
More
say he rose again…
...and joined the British Army!
Fiddler’s Green
As
I walked down the dockside one evenin’ so fair,
To view
the still waters and take the salt air,
I heard an old fisherman
singin’ this song,
Saying, “Take me away boys, me
time is not long.”
Ch:
Wrap
me up in me oilskins and jumper;
No more by the docks I’ll
be seen.
Just
tell me old shipmates I’m taking a trip, mates,
And
I’ll see you someday on Fiddler’s Green.
O,
Fiddler’s Green is a place, I’ve heard tell,
Where
fishermen go if they don’t go to hell,
Where the weather
is fair and the dolphins do play,
And the cold coast of
Greenland is far, far away.
Where
the sky’s always blue and there’s never a gale,
Where
the fish jump on board with a swish of their tail.
You
can lie at your leisure, for
there’s no work to
do,
And the skipper’s below making tea for the crew.
When
you get back to dock & your long trip is through,
There’s
pubs and there’s clubs,
and there’s lassies there
too;
The girls are all pretty, and the beer is all free,
And
there’s bottles of rum growin’ on every tree.
Well
I don’t want a harp nor a halo, not me;
Just give me a
breeze and a good rollin’ sea.
And I’ll play me old
squeeze-box as we sail along,
With the wind in the rigging to
sing me this song.
Finnegan’s Wake
Tim
Finnegan lived in Walkin’ Street,
A gentle Irishman,
mighty odd.
He’d a beautiful brogue, so rich and
sweet,
And to rise in the world, he carried a hod.
You see,
he’d a sort of a tipplin’ way,
With a love for the
liquor poor Tim was born;
So to help him on with his work each
day,
He’d a drop o’ the critter every morn.
Ch:
Whack,
fol-the-da, now, dance to your partner,
Welt the floor, your
trotters shake!
Wasn’t it the truth, I tell you?
Lots
of fun at Finnegan’s Wake!
One
morning Tim was rather full,
His head felt heavy, which made him
shake;
He fell from a ladder and he broke his skull,
And
they carried him home, his corpse to wake.
They rolled him up in
a nice clean sheet
And laid him out upon the bed,
With a
barrel of whiskey at his feet
And a bottle of porter at his
head.
His
friends assembled at the wake
And Mrs. Finnegan called for
lunch:
First she brought in tay and cake,
Then pipes,
tobacco and whiskey punch.
Biddy O’Brien began to
cry,
“Such a nice clean corpse did you never see!
Tim,
mavourneen, why did you die?”
“Arragh, hold yer
gob!” said Paddy McGee.
Then
Maggie O’Connor took up the job;
“Ah, Biddy, says
she, you’re wrong, I’m sure!”
Biddy gave her a
belt in the gob
And left her sprawlin’ on the floor.
Then
the war did soon engage,
It was woman to woman and man to
man;
Shillelagh-law was all the rage,
And a row and a
ruction soon began.
Then
Mickey Moloney raised his head,
And a noggin of whiskey flew at
him.
It missed him, falling on the bed:
The liquor
scattered over Tim.
Tim revives, see how he rises!
Timothy
rising from the bed,
Says, “Whirl your whiskey around like
blazes,
Thundering jazus!* Do you think I’m dead?!”
The Glendalough Saint (St. Kevin)
In
Glendalough lived an old saint
Renowned for learning and
piety.
His manners was curious and quaint
And he looked
upon girls with disparity.
Ch:
With
me fol di dol fol di dol day, )
Fol di dol rol di dol ad dy )
[2x]
He
was fond of readin’ a book
When he could get one to his
wishes;
He was fond of castin’ his hook
In among the
ould fishes.
But
one evenin’ he landed a trout,
He landed a fine big trout,
sir,
When young Kathleen from over the way
Came to see what
the monk was about, sir.
“Oh,
get out o’ me way,” said the saint,
“For I am
a man of great piety,
And me good manners I wouldn’t
taint,
Not by mixing with female society.”
Oh,
but Kitty she wouldn’t give in,
And when he got home to
his rockery,
He found she was seated therein,
A-polishin’
up his ould crockery.
Well,
he gave the poor creature a shake,
And I wish that the Garda had
caught him;
For he threw her right into the lake,
And, be
Jaysus, she sank to the bottom!
The Frog in the Well
From Liam Clancy by way of Mary O’Hara
There
was a frog lived in the well,
"Hi
ho" says Roly.
There
was a frog lived in the well,
And
a merry mouse in the dell.
With
me roly poly cabbage and spinach,
And
“Hi!” for Anthony Roly.
Said
the frog, “I must go court,…
With
me bayonet and me sword.”…
Little
Miss Mouse was having her tea…
Says
he, "Miss Mouse, would ya marry me?"…
Where
will the weddin' be? …
Down
at the butt of an Ivy tree…
Now
we're all in very good cheer…
If
we had some music here…
In
came the bumble bee…
And
clamped a bagpipe on his knee…
Now
we're all in very good cheer…
If
we had some dancin' here…
In
came the butterfly…
She
swore she'd dance until she died…
The
next on the floor was Uncle Rat…
He
up and danced a jig on the mat…
Suddenly
there was a terrible din…
The cat and the kittens came
tumblin’ in…
The
frog jumped up in a terrible fright…
He
doffed his hat and said, “Goodnight!” …
But
as the frog was crossing the stream…
A
big duck came and gabobbled him up…
The Hiring Fair (Salt)
From the singing of Kevin Coneff of the Chieftains
Come
all ye young lads and young lasses
Who hanker to work on a
farm,
Now be careful when choosin’ a master:
Might
serve for to keep you from harm.
When
I was a strappin’ young fellow
Aged about seventeen,
I
hired myself to a farmer
At the horsefair at Ballynascreen.
Now
his farm was way up on the mountain,
And it all was just heather
and bog;
And my job, well, I got to look after
His donkey,
his goat and his dog.
Now
me and the farmer and his mother,
We lived in a tumble-down
shack.
His mother was well over ninety,
With the bones
sticking out of her back.
It
was only a tumble-down ruin
Held together by old yeller
clay;
The roof it was past all repairin’,
For the
goat had the thatch ate away.
His
poor mother, she slept by the fire,
For the rain it came down on
her bed;
And when I’d get up early each morning,
She’d
be sitting there nodding her head.
Well,
we had three old hens and a rooster.
One day they all died in
the coop,
So
he plucked them and boiled them and salted them;
We
lived for a month on the soup.
Bad
luck, now it never runs single,
For the next day the nanny-goat
died.
So he skint it and boiled it and salted it,
And made
himself shoes from the hide.
It
was then poor old Neddy the donkey
Broke his hind leg and
suffered great pain,
So he shot him and skint him and boiled
him,
And called for the salt once again.
Now
I thought that his mind was affected,
And myself, I was going
insane,
For when poor Fido died of distemper,
He called for
the salt once again.
When
I thought of what happened to Fido,
I couldn’t sleep
thinkin’ that night,
And when I got up early next
morning,
I got me a terrible fright.
His
poor mother was dead by the fire,
And when I ran for the door he
cried, “Halt!
Where are you going so early?
Come back
here and help me to salt!”
Well,
I went through that door like a rocket,
Says myself, “I’ll
get out of this fault!”
I tripped in the yard from
excitement,
And out he come runnin’ with salt.
Well
I took to my heels like a cowboy,
And over the hills like a
hare;
I never stopped runnin’ for a fortnight,
And
I’ve never been back to a fair!
Irish Ballad (Rickety-Tickety-Tin)
Words & Tune: Tom Lehrer
About
a maid I'll sing a song,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
About
a maid I'll sing a song;
Who
didn't have her family long.
Not
only did she do them wrong,
She
did ev'ryone of them in, them in,
She
did ev'ryone of them in.
One
morning in a fit of pique,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
One
morning in a fit of pique
She
drowned her father in the creek.
The
water tasted bad for a week,
And
we had to make do with gin, with gin,
We
had to make do with gin.
Her
mother she could never stand,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
Her
mother she cold never stand,
And
so a cyanide soup she planned.
The
mother died with a spoon in her hand,
And
her face in a hideous grin, a grin,
Her
face in a hideous grin.
She
set her sister's hair on fire,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
She
set her sister's hair on fire,
And
as the smoke and flame rose higher,
She
danced around the funeral pyre,
Playin'
a violin, -olin,
Playin'
a violin.
She
weighted her brother down with stones,
Sing
Rickety-tickety-tin.
She
weighted her brother down with stones,
And
sent him off to Davy Jones.
All
they ever found were some bones,
And
occasional pieces of skin, of skin,
Occasional
pieces of skin.
One
day when she had nothing to do,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
One
day when she had nothing to do
She
cut her baby brother in two,
And
served him up as an irish stew,
And
invited the neighbors in, -bors in,
Invited
the neighbors in.
And
when at last the police came by,
Sing
rickety-tickety-tin.
And
when at last the police came by
Her
little pranks she did not deny.
To
do so she would have had to lie,
And
lying, she knew, was a sin, a sin,
Lying,
she knew, was a sin.
My
tragic tale I won't prolong,
Sing
Rickety-tickety-tin.
My
tragic tale I won't prolong,
And
if you do not enjoy the song,
You've
yourselves to blame if it's too long—
You
should never have let me begin, begin,
You
should never have let me begin.
The Irish Rover
In
the Year of Our Lord, eighteen hundred and six,
We set sail from
the coal quay of Cork;
We were sailing away with a cargo of
bricks
For the grand City Hall in New York.
We’d an
elegant craft, she was rigged fore-and-aft,
And how the trade
winds drove her;
She had 23 masts, and she’d stood several
blasts,
And they called her the Irish Rover.
We
had one million bags of the best Sligo rags,
We had two million
barrels of stone,
We had three million bales of old nanny-goats'
tails, We had four million barrels of bones.
We had five million
hogs, and six million dogs,
And seven million barrels of
porter,
We had eight million sides of old blind horses’
hides
In the hold of the Irish Rover.
There
was
Barney McGee from the banks of
the Lee,
There was Hogan from County Tyrone,
There was
Johnny McGurk,
who was scared stiff of work,
And a chap
from Westmeath named Malone.
There
was Slugger O'Toole, who was drunk as a rule,
And
Fighting Bill Tracy from Dover,
And
yer man Mick McCann,
from the banks of the Bann,
Was
the skipper on the Irish Rover.
We
had sailed seven years
when the measles broke out,
And
the ship lost her way in the fog. [great
fog!]
And
that whale of a crew was reduced down to two, ’Twas meself and
the Captain's old dog.
Then the ship struck a rock, O Lord! what
a shock,
And nearly tumbled over!
It turned nine times
around
and the poor old dog was drowned—
I'm the
last of the Irish Rover!
Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye
All right, he didn’t die; but doesn’t he wish he had!
When
goin’ the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo
Hurroo,
When
goin’ the road to sweet Athy,
Hurroo
Hurroo,
When
goin’ the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in me hand, a drop
in me eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny,
I hardly knew ya.
Ch:
Wi’
yer guns and drums and drums and guns,
Hurroo Hurroo,
Wi’
yer guns and drums and drums and guns,
Hurroo Hurroo,
Wi’
yer guns and drums and drums and guns
The enemy nearly slew
ya;
Oh, darlin’ dear, ya looked sa queer,
Johnny,
I hardly knew ya.
[Similarly:]
Where
are the legs with which you run…
Where are the legs with
which you run…
Where are the legs with which you
run,
When first you went to carry a gun
Indeed your dancing
days are done…
Where
are the eyes that looked so mild…
Where are the eyes that
looked so mild, …
Where are the eyes that looked so
mild
When my poor heart you first beguiled;
Why did ye
skedaddle from me and the child?...
You
haven't an arm, you haven't a leg…
You haven't an arm,
you haven't a leg…
You haven't an arm, you hadn't a
leg,
You're a eyeless, boneless, chickenless egg;
You'll
have to be put with the bowl to beg…
I'm
happy for to see ya home…
I'm happy for to see ya
home…
I'm happy for to see ya home,
All from the
island of Ceylon,
Do low in the flesh, so high in the bone…
Kevin Barry
In
Mountjoy jail one Monday morning,
High upon the gallows
tree,
Kevin Barry gave his young life
For the cause of
liberty.
Just a lad of eighteen summers,
Yet there's no one
can deny
As he walked to death that morning,
He proudly
held his head on high.
Just
before he faced the hangman
In his dreary prison
cell,
British soldiers tortured Barry,
Just because he
would not tell
The names of all his brave comrades
And
other things they wished to know;
"Turn informer or we'll
kill you!"
Kevin Barry answered, "No!”
Another
martyr for old Ireland,
Another murder for the crown;
The
English laws may kill the Irish,
But cannot keep their spirit
down.
Lads like Barry are no cowards,
From the foe they
will not fly;
Lads like Barry will free Ireland:
For her
cause they live and die.
The Mermaid
It
was Friday morn when we set sail,
And we were not far from the
land,
When our captain, he spied a mermaid so fair,
With a
comb and a glass in her hand.
Ch:
Oh,
the ocean waves do roll,
And the stormy winds do blow.
We
poor sailors go skipping to the tops,
While the landlubbers lie
down below,
below, below,
Oh, the landlubbers lie down
below.
Then
up spoke the captain of our gallant ship,
And a fine old man
was he.
"This fishy mermaid has warned me of our doom,
We
shall sink to the bottom of the sea."
Then
up spoke the mate of our gallant ship,
And a well-spoken man
was he.
"Oh, I have a wife in Salem by the sea,
And
tonight a widow she will be."
Then
up spoke the cabin-boy of our gallant ship,
And a brave young
lad was he.
"Oh, I have a sweetheart in Plymouth by the
sea,
And tonight she'll be weeping for me."
Then
up spoke the cook of our gallant ship,
And a crazy old butcher
was he.
"Oh, I care much more for my pots and my pans,
Than I do for the bottom of the sea."
Then
three times round spun our gallant ship,
And three times around
spun she.
Three times round spun our gallant ship,
And
she sank to the bottom of the sea.
Me Grandfather Died
From the singing of Peg Power
Me
grandfather died, and peace be with him,
In dying he did not
forget me.
In making his will, sure, he wrote with a quill,
And
’tis many the thing that he left me.
Ch:
Tie-oodle,
tie-um, tie-illy, aye-yum.
Tie-oodle,
tie-illy, tie-air-o.
Tie-oodle,
tie-um, tie-illy, aye-yum.
Whack
for the toora-lye-air-o.
He
left me a skillet, a pot and a griddle,
A fork and a knife that
would open,
Some silly matters, a few pewter platter,
Faith,
aye, and a tenpenny token.
He
left me a dresser with hooks for the mugs,
A few holy books and
a table’
For readin’ me prayer book an’
skippin’ hard work,
Sure, it’s right well ye know
that I’m able!
He
left me nine hens that would lay every day,
Nine geese and a
good-lookin’ gander,
A brown-berry cock, he’s the
pride of the flock,
And he goes like a marchin’
Highlander.
The Minstrel Boy
The
minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In
the ranks of death you'll find him.
His
father's sword he has girded on,
And
his wild harp slung behind him.
"Land
of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Though
all the world betrays thee,
One
sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One
faithful harp shall praise thee!"
The
Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain
Could
not bring that proud soul under.
The
harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For
he tore its chords asunder,
And
said "No chains shall sully thee,
Thou
soul of love and bravery!
Thy
songs were made for the pure and free:
They
shall never sound in slavery!"
The Old Woman from Wexford
From the singing of Tommy Makem
There
was an old woman from Wexford,
In Wexford town did dwell;
She
loved her husband dearly,
But another man twice as well.
(Chorus)
With
me right fol lidder-all ar-yl,
And me right fol lo-ra-lee.
One
day she went to the doctor
Some medicine for to find,
Saying,
"Doctor give me something
That'll make me ould man blind."
"Oh,
feed him eggs and marrow bones,
And make him sup them all,
And
it won't be so very long after that
That he won't see you at
all."
Oh,
the doctor wrote a letter,
And he signed it with his hand;
Then
he sent it off to her ould man
So he would understand.
So
she fed him eggs and marrow bones,
And made him sup them
all,
And it wasn't so very long after that
’Til he
couldn't see the wall.
Says
he, "I'd go and drown meself,
But that might be a
sin."
Says she, "I'll go to the water’s
edge,
And I'll help to push you in."
The
old woman she went back a bit
To get a running go.
The old
man blithely stepped aside,
And she went in below.
Oh,
how loudly did she roar,
And how loudly did she bawl!
"Arrah,
hould yer whisht, ould woman," says he,
"Sure I can't
see you at all!"
She
swam and swam and swam and swam
'Till she came to the further
brim.
The old man got a long barge pole,
And he pushed her
further in.
O
eggs are eggs and marrow bones
Will make your old man blind.
But
if you want to drown him,
You must creep up close behind!
Paddy Murphy
Tune: Wearin’ of the Green
Oh
the night that Paddy Murphy died,
I never will forget,
We
all got stinkin’ drunk that night,
and some ain’t
sober yet.
But the only thing they did that night
that
filled my heart with fear:
They took the ice right off the
corpse,
and put it in the beer.
The
widow in the corner sat pouring out her grief,
Then Kelly and
his gang, they came
a-tearing down the street.
They went
into an empty room,
a whiskey jar they stole;
They put the
bottle with the corpse,
to keep the whiskey cold.
They
stopped the hearse on George Street
right outside the old
saloon,
They all went in at half past eight,
and staggered
out at noon.
They went up to the graveyard,
so holy and
sublime,
And found out when they got there
that they'd
left the corpse behind!
Roddy McCorley
O
see the fleet-foot host of men,
who march with faces drawn,
From
farmstead and from fishers' cot,
along the banks of Ban.
They
come with vengeance in their eyes;
Too late! Too late are
they.
For
young Roddy McCorley goes to die
on the bridge of Toome today.
Up
the narrow street he stepped,
smiling, proud and young.
About
the hemp-rope on his neck
the golden ringlets clung.
There
is never a tear in his blue eyes,
both glad and bright are
they,
As
young Roddy McCorley goes to die
on the bridge of Toome today.
When
he last stepped up the street,
his shining pike in hand,
Behind
him marched, in grim array,
a stalwart, earnest band.
To
Antrim town! To Antrim town,
he led them to the fray;
But
young Roddy McCorley goes to die
on the bridge of Toome today.
There's
never a one of all your dead
more bravely fell in fray
Than
he who marches to his fate
in Toomebridge town today.
True
to the last! True to the last,
he treads the upward way,
And
young Roddy McCorley goes to die
on the bridge of Toome today.
Rosin the Beau
I’ve
traveled all over this world,
And now to another I go;
I
know that good quarters are waiting
To welcome old Rosin the
Beau.
To welcome old Rosin the Beau,
To welcome old Rosin
the Beau,
And I know that good quarters are waiting
To
welcome old Rosin the Beau.
[Similarly, with repeats of the last 2 lines:]
When
I’m dead and laid out on the counter,
A voice you will
hear from below,
Saying, “Send down a hogshead of
whiskey,
To drink with old Rosin the Beau!”...
Then
get a half-dozen stout fellows,
And stack them all up in a
row,
Let them drink out of half-gallon bottles
To the name
of old Rosin the Beau....
Then
get this half-dozen stout fellows,
And let them all stagger and
go,
And dig a great hole in the meadow,
And in it put Rosin
the Beau....
Then
get ye a couple of bottles,
Put one at me head and me toe;
With
a diamond ring scratch upon ‘em
The name of old Rosin the
Beau....
I
feel that old tyrant approaching,
That cruel, remorseless old
foe,
And I lift up my glass in his honor:
Take a drink with
old Rosin the Beau!...
She Moved Through the Fair
Words: Padraic Colum
My
young love said to me, “My mother won’t mind,
And my
father won’t slight you for your lack of kind.”
And
she laid her hand on me, and this she did say,
“It will
not be long, love, ’til our wedding day.”
And
she stepped away from me,
and she moved through the fair,
And
fondly I watched her move here and move there.
And
then she turned homeward with one star awake,
As
the swan in the evening moves over the lake.
The
people were saying, no two e’er were wed,
But one had a
sorrow that never was said;
And
I smiled as
she passed with her goods
&
her gear,
And that
was the last that I saw of my dear.
Last
night she came to me, my dead love came in,
And so softly she
came that her feet made no din,
As she laid her hand on me, and
this she did say,
“It will not be long, love, ’til
our wedding day.”
Sweet Molly Malone
In
Dublin’s fair city, where girls are so pretty,
I first
laid my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her
wheelbarrow
through streets broad and narrow,
Crying,
“Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o!”
Ch:
“Alive,
alive o-o, alive, alive o-o,”
Crying, “Cockles and
mussels, alive, alive-o!”
She
was a fishmonger,
and
sure, ’twas
no wonder,
For so were her
father and mother before;
And each wheeled a barrow
through
streets broad and narrow,
Crying, “Cockles and
mussels, alive, alive-o!”
She
died of a faver, and no-one could save her,
And
that was the end of sweet Molly Malone.
Now her ghost wheels
her barrow
through streets broad and narrow,
Crying,
“Cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o.”
Weela Wallia
There
was an old woman who lived in the wood,
Weela
weela wallia;
There
was an old woman who lived in the wood,
Down
by the river Sallia.
She
had a baby six months old…
She had a baby six months old…
She
had a big knife three foot long…
She had a big knife
three foot long,…
She
stuck the knife in the baby's head,…
The more she stabbed
it the more it bled…
Three
big knocks come a knockin' at the door…
Two policemen and
a man…
“Are
you the woman what killed the child?” …
“Are
you the woman what killed the child?”…
“I
am the woman what killed the child.”…
“I am
the woman what killed the child.”…
The
rope got chucked and she got hung,…
The rope got chucked
and she got hung,…
The
moral of this story is…
Don't stick knives in babies'
heads!…
Wexford Mummer’s Song
From the singing of Mary O’Hara
In
Derry town there dwelt two maids,
There dwelt two maids in
Shroden;
One of their names was Patty Grey,
The other was
Nancy Hogan.
Ch:
Fa
la la la la la, fa la la la la la,
Fa la la la la la la la, fa
la la la la la.
Now
these two maids led an awful life,
An awful life and
dreary;
From morn 'til night they'd fuss and fight,
Everything
quite contrary.
Now
Nancy bought a little pig,
And he grew like the wonder;
Patty
bought another one,
Scarce could tell them asunder.
Now
these two pigs were out one day,
These pigs were out a feedin',
Blackguards came, cut off their tails,
Sent them home a
bleedin'.
Now
Nancy died of a Saturday night,
And Patty died of a Sunday,
Blackguards came and dug their graves,
Buried them both
on Monday
Now
these two maids are dead and gone,
Their bones they lie in
Shroden,
And devil a prayer was offered up,
For Patty and
Nancy Hogan.
William Bloat
In
a mean abode on the Shankill Road
Lived a man named William
Bloat.
He had a wife, the bane of his life,
And she always
got his goat;
So one day at dawn, with her nightdress on,
He
slit her bloody throat.
Then
he was glad he had done what he had
As she lay there stiff and
still,
’Til sudden awe of the angry law
Filled his
mind with an awful chill;
So to finish the fun so well begun,
He
decided himself to kill.
So
he took the sheet from his wife’s cold feet,
And he
twisted in into a rope,
And he hanged himself from the pantry
shelf—
’Twas an easy end, let’s hope.
With
his dying breath, and he facing death,
He solemnly cursed the
Pope.
But
the strangest turn of the whole concern
Is only just
beginning:
He went to hell, but his wife got well,
And
she’s still alive and sinning,
For the razor blade was
German made,
But the rope was Belfast linen.
The Wind That Shakes the Barley
By Robert Dwyer Joyce (1836–1883)
I
sat within a valley green,
I sat there with my true love,
My
sad heart strove the two between,
The old love and the new
love—
The old for her, the new that made me
Think on
Ireland dearly,
While soft the wind blew down the glen,
And
shook the golden barley.
’Twas
hard the woeful words to frame
To break the ties that bound
us;
Twas harder still to bear the shame
Of foreign chains
around us.
And so I said, "The mountain glen
I'll seek
next morning early,
And join the brave United Men!"
While
soft winds shook the barley.
While
sad I kissed away her tears,
My fond arms 'round her flinging,
The foeman's shot burst on our ears,
From out the
wildwood ringing.
A bullet pierced my true love's side
In
life's young spring so early,
And on my breast in blood she
died,
While soft winds shook the barley.
But
blood for blood without remorse
I've ta'en at Oulart
Hollow,
And laid my true love's clay-cold corpse
Where I
full soon may follow.
And round her grave I wander drear,
Noon, night, and morning early,
With breaking heart
whene'er I hear
The wind that shakes the barley![
EXILE & EMIGRATION: THE AMERICAN & AUSTRALIAN "DEATH"
The Black Velvet Band
Chorus:
Her
eyes, they shone like the diamonds,
You’d think she was
queen of the land,
And her hair hung over her shoulder,
Tied
up with a black velvet band.
In
a neat little town they call Belfast,
Apprenticed to trade I was
bound,
And many’s the hour of sweet happiness
I spent
in that neat little town.
’Til sad misfortune came o’er
me,
And forced me to stray from the land,
Far away from my
friend and relations,
To follow the Black Velvet Band.
As
I went walking one evening
Not meaning to stray very far,
I
met with a frolicsome damsel:
She was sellin’ her trade at
the bar.
A watch she took from a customer,
And slipped it
right into my hand,
And the law came and chucked us in
prison:
Bad luck to her Black Velvet Band!
Next
morning before judge and jury,
For
trial I had to appear.
The
judge said, “Me saucy young fellow,
The
case against you is quite clear.
It’s
seven long years transportation,
You’re
going to Van Dieman's Land,
Far
away from your friends and relations,
To
follow the Black
Velvet Band.”
So
come all you jolly young fellows,
I'd
have you take warning by me:
Whenever
you're out on the liquor, me lads,
Beware
of the pretty colleens!
For
they'll ply you with whiskey and porter
till
you are not able to stand,
And
the very next thing that you know me lads,
You've
landed in Van Dieman's Land.
Fields of Athenry
by A.M. Barr, K.W. Casey, M.J. Orrell & M. Kelly
By
a lonely prison wall, I heard a young girl calling,
“Michael,
they have taken you away,
For you stole Trevelyan's corn,
So
the young might see the morn;
Now a prison ship lies waiting in
the bay.”
(Chorus)
Low
lie the fields of Athenry,
Where once we watched the small free
birds fly.
Our love was on the win,g
We had dreams and
songs to sing;
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry.
By
a lonely prison wall, I heard a young man calling,
“Nothing
matters, Mary, when you're free!
Against the famine and the
crown
I rebelled, they cut me down;
Now you must raise our
child with dignity”
By
a lonely harbor wall,
she watched the last star falling,
As
the prison ship sailed out against the sky,
For she lived to
hope and pray
for her love in Botany Bay;
It's so lonely
round the fields of Athenry
Goodbye Mick
Now
the ship it sails in half an hour
to cross the broad
Atlantic,
Me
friends are standing on the quay
in grief and sorrow
frantic.
I'm
just about to sail away
on the good ship Dan O'Leary;
The
anchor's weighed and the gangway's up,
I'm leaving Tipperary.
(Chorus)
So
it’s goodbye Mick, and goodbye Pat,
and goodbye Kate and
Mary,
The
anchor's weighed and the gangway's up,
I'm leaving
Tipperary.
And
now the steam is blowin’ off,
and I’ve got no more
to say:
I'm
bound for New York City, boys,
three thousand miles away.
In
my old kitbag here I have
cabbage, spuds and bacon;
Isn't
that the finest fare, and is your belly aching?
If
the ship it starts to pitch and toss,
I'll leave very quickly,
I'll pack me bundle on me back
and I'll walk to New York
City
Those
Yankee girls will sure love me,
of course I'm speculatin';
I'll
oil them well with liquor, boys,
and they'll love the way I'm
treatin'.
I'm
as deep in love with Molly Burke
as an ass is fond of
clover;
When
I get there I'll send for her,
that's if she will come over!
Goodbye Muirsheen Durkin
In
the days when I was courtin',
I was never tired resortin'
To
the ale-house or the playhouse,
and many's the house
besides.
But
I told me brother Seamus
I'd go off and be right famous,
And
I never would return again
'til I’d roamed the world
wide.
Ch:
Oh,
it’s goodbye Muirsheen Durkin,
sure I'm sick and tired of
workin’.
No
more I'll dig the praties,
and no longer I'll be fooled.
As
sure's me name is Carney,
I'll be off to Californy,
Where
instead of diggin' praties,
I'll be diggin' lumps of gold.
I've
courted girls in Blarney,
in Kanturk and in Killarney,
In
Passage and in Queenstown,
that is the Cobh of Cork.
Goodbye
to all this pleasure,
I'll be off to take me leisure,
And
the next time that you’ll hear from me
is a letter from
New York.
Goodbye
to the girls at home,
I'm going far across the foam,
To
try and make me fortune in far Amerikay.
There's
gold and riches plenty,
for the poor and for the gentry,
And
if ever I return again,
no more you’ll hear me say:
Mary from Dungloe
Words: Pádraig MacCumhaill, rev. by Colm O'Laughlin
Oh,
then, fare thee well, sweet Donegal,
The Rosses and Gweedore;
I'm crossing the main ocean
Where the foaming billows
roar.
It breaks my heart from you to part,
Where I spent
many happy days;
Farewell to kind relations,
I am bound
for Amerikay.
Oh,
then, Mary, you're my heart's delight,
My pride and only care.
It was your cruel father
Would not let me to stay there.
But absence makes the heart grow fond,
And when I am over
the main,
May the Lord protect my darling girl,
'Til I
return again.
And
I wish I was in sweet Dungloe,
And seated on the grass,
And
by my side a bottle of wine,
And on my knee a lass.
I'd
call for liquor of the best,
And I'd pay before I'd go.
And
I'd roll my Mary in my arms,
In the town of sweet Dungloe.
Paddy’s Green Shamrock Shore
Oh
fare-thee-well, Ireland,
My own dear native land;
It
breaks my heart to see friends part,
For it's then that the
teardrops fall.
I'm
on my way to Amerikay,
Will I e'er see my home once more?
For
now I leave my own true love
On Paddy's green shamrock shore.
Our
ship she lies at anchor,
She's standing by the quay.
May
fortune bright shine down each night,
As we sail over the
sea.
Many
ships were lost, many lives it cost
On the journey that lies
before;
With
a tear in my eye I'm bidding good-bye
To Paddy's green shamrock
shore.
So
fare thee well my own true love,
I'll think of you night and
day,
And
a place in my mind you surely will find,
Although I am so far
away.
Though
I'll be alone far away from my home,
I'll think of the good
times once more,
Until
the day I can make my way
Back to Paddy's green shamrock shore.
And
now the ship is on the waves;
May heaven protect us all.
With
the wind in the sail, we surely can't fail
On this voyage to
Baltimore.
But
my parents and friends did wait till the end,
Till I could see
them no more;
I
then took a chance for to glance
At Paddy's green shamrock
shore.
The Wild Colonial Boy
There
was a wild colonial boy,
Jack Duggan was his name;
He
was born and raised in Ireland
In a place called
Castlemaine.
He
was his father's only son,
His mother's pride and joy,
And
dearly did his parents love
The wild colonial boy.
At
the early age of sixteen years
He left his native home,
And
to Australia's sunny shore
He was inclined to roam.
He
robbed the rich, he helped the poor,
He shot James McAvoy;
A
terror to Australia was
The wild colonial boy.
One
morning on the prairie
As Jack he rode along,
A-listening
to the mockingbird
A-singing a cheerful song,
Out
stepped a band of troopers,
Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy;
They’d
all set out to capture him,
The wild colonial boy.
"Surrender
now, Jack Duggan,
For you see we're three to one,
Surrender
in the Queen's high name,
For you're a plundering son."
Jack
pulled two pistols from his belt,
He proudly waved them
high
"I'll
fight, but not surrender!"
Said the wild colonial boy
He
fired a shot at Kelly,
Which brought him to the ground;
And
turning 'round to Davis,
He received a fatal wound.
A
bullet pierced his proud young heart
From the pistol of
Fitzroy,
And
that was how they captured him,
The wild colonial boy.
NOT IRISH!
(Well, some *are* Scottish….)
The Bonnie Earl of Moray
Based on a true story!
Ye
Highlands and ye Lowlands,
Where hae ye been?
They have
slain the Earl of Moray
And laid him on the green.
He was a
braw gallant
And he played at the ball,
And the bonnie Earl
of Moray
Was the flow’r among them all.
Oh
wae betide ye, Huntley,
And wherefore did ye say?
I bade ye
bring him here,
But forbade ye him to slay.
He was a braw
gallant,
And he rade at the ring,
And the bonnie Earl of
Moray
He might have been a king.
He
was a braw gallant,
And he played at the glove,
And the
bonnie Earl of Moray
He was the Queen’s own love.
Long
may his lady
Look o’er the castle and down,
Ere the
bonnie Earl of Moray
Comes sounding through the town.
Captain Kidd
My
name is Robert Kidd
As
I sailed, as I sailed.
My
name is Robert Kidd
As
I sailed.
My
name is Robert Kidd,
God's laws I did forbid,
And most
wickedly I did,
As
I sailed, as I sailed.
My
parents taught me well… [3x]
To
shun the gates of hell,…
But against them I rebelled…
I
murdered William Moore… [3x]
And
I left him in his gore…
Twenty leagues away from shore…
And
being cruel still,… [3x]
The
gunner I did kill,
All his precious blood did spill…
To
execution dock I must go, I must go,
To execution dock I must
go,
To execution dock,
Lay my head upon the block,
No
more the laws I'll mock
As I sail, as I sail.
Dr. Price
Tune:
Earli in the Morning, aka Drunken Sailor
(BTW, this one is
Welsh, and Price was a real person!)
There
once was a man named Dr. Price
Who lived on lettuce, nuts and
rice;
His idols were the moon and sun,
And he walked the
hills with nothing on, singing,
Ch:
I don’t give a bugger, [3x]
What
anybody thinks of me!
The
randy Doctor in his day
Put lots of girls in a family way;
His
little bastards could be seen
From Pontypool to Pontyclun,
singing,
Now,
at the age of eighty-eight
The Doctor had to choose a mate;
He
met a girl named Gwenlian
And became the father of her son,
singing,
A
doting dad was Dr. Price;
He named the baby Jesus Christ,
And
wrapped it in a flannel shawl,
The bonniest bastard of them all!
Singing,
But
in a twelvemonth, sad to say,
The little baby passed away;
So,
after chapel one fine night,
He set the little corpse alight,
singing,
But
when the local Deacons saw
That Dr. Price had broke the
law,
They shouted out, “Ach y fi!”
And put him
under lock and key, singing,
The
Doctor told the magistrate
He didn’t care about his
fate.
“It was the most hygienic way—
I’ll
be a famous man one day!” Singing,
The
morning that the Doctor died,
His children stood at his
bedside.
He drank a bottle of champagne,
And started
singing once again:
He
told his children in his will
To burn him on Llantrisant
Hill.
They built a crematorium,
And
the Doctor went to Kingdom Come,
singing,
It’s
thanks to Dr. William Price
That modern corpses have the
choice
To linger in the mould’ring clay
Or go up the
chimney right away, singing,
Lord Randal
In 1803 Sir Walter Scott published this ballad, possibly based on Randolph, 6th Earl of Chester (d. 1232).
“O
where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son?
And
where ha you been, my handsome young man?”
“I
ha been at the greenwood;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m
wearied wi’ huntin’, and fain wad lie down.”
“An
wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son?
An
wha met you there, my handsome young man?”
“O, I met
wi my true-love;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m
wearied wi’ huntin’, an fain wad lie down.”
“And
what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son?
What did she give
you, my handsome young man?”
“Eels fried in a pan;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’
huntin’, and fain wad lie down.”
“And
what was their color, Lord Randal, my son?
What was their color,
my handsome young man?”
“They were spickled and
speckled;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied
wi’ huntin’, and fain wad lie down.”
“And
wha gat your leavin’s, Lord Randal, my son?
What gat your
leavin’s, my handsome young man?”
“My hawks
and my hounds; mother,
mak my bed soon,
For I’m
wearied wi’ huntin’, and fain wad lie down
“And
what becam’ of them, Lord Randall, my son?
What became of
them, my handsome young man?”
“They stretched their
legs out an died;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m
wearied wi’ huntin’, and fain wad lie down.”
“O
I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son!
I fear you are
poisoned, my handsome young man!”
“O yes, I am
poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the
heart, and I fain wad lie down.”
“What
d’ ye leave to your mother,
Lord Randal, my son?
What
d’ye leave to your mother,
my handsome young man?”
“Four
and twenty milk kye;
mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m
sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.”
“What
d’ ye leave to your sister,
Lord Randal, my son?
What
d’ ye leave to your sister,
my handsome young man?”
“My
gold and my silver; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick
at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.”
“What
d’ ye leave to your brother,
Lord Randal, my son?
What
d’ ye leave to your brother,
my handsome young man?”
“My
house and my lands; mother,
mak my bed soon,
For I’m
sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.”
“What
d’ ye leave to your true-love,
Lord Randal, my son?
What
d’ ye leave to your true-love,
my handsome young man?”
“I
leave her hell and fire; mother, mak’ my bed soon,
For
I’m sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down.”
Miss Bailey
By Lou Gottlieb
A
captain bold from Halifax,
Who dwelt in country quarters,
Seduced a maid who hanged herself
One Monday in her
garters.
His wicked conscience smited him,
He lost his
stomach daily;
He took to drinking ratafia
And tho't upon
Miss Bailey.
Ch:
Poor
Miss Bailey!
Unfortunate Miss Bailey!
One
night betimes he went to bed
For he had caught a fever;
Said
he, "I am a handsome man
And I'm a bold deceiver."
His
candle just a twelve o'clock
Began to burn quite palely:
A
ghost stepped up to his bedside
And said, "Behold, Miss
Bailey!"
"Avast,
Miss Bailey," then he cried,
"You can't affright me,
really."
"Dear Captain Smith," the ghost
replied,
"You used me ungenteelly.
The
coroner's quest goes hard with me
Because I've acted frailly,
And Parson Biggs won't bury me
Tho' I'm a dead Miss
Bailey."
“Dear
Madam, then, since you and I
Accounts must once for all close,
I have a five-pound note
In my regimental small
clothes.
'Twill bribe the sexton for your grave."
The
ghost then vanished gaily,
Crying, “Bless you, wicked
Captain Smith,
Remember poor Miss Bailey!"
MacCrimmon’s Lament
Round
Cuillin's peak the mist is sailing,
The banshee croons her note
of wailing.
But my blue e'en wi' sorrow are streaming
For
him that will never return—MacCrimmon.
Ch:
No more, no more, no more forever,
In war or peace shall return
MacCrimmon.
No more, no more, no more forever,
Shall love
or gold bring back MacCrimmon.
The
beasts on the braes are mournfully moaning;
The brook in the
hollow is plaintively mourning.
But my blue e'en wi' sorrow are
streaming
For him that will never return—MacCrimmon.
My Son David
Oh,
what’s that blood it’s on your sword,
My son David,
ho, son David,
What’s that blood that’s on your
sword?
Come, promise, tell me true.
That’s
the blood of my grey mare,
O lady Mother, ho, lady
Mother,
That’s the blood of my grey mare,
Because she
wadnae rule by me.
Oh,
that blood it is ower clear,
My son David, ho, son David,
That
blood it is ower clear;
Come, promise, tell me true.
That’s
the blood of my grey hound,
Hey lady Mother, ho, lady
Mother,
That’s the blood of my grey hound,
Because it
wadnae rule by me.
Oh,
that blood it is ower clear,
My son David, ho, son David,
That
blood it is ower clear;
Come, promise, tell me true.
That’s
the blood of my brother John,
Hey lady Mother, ho, lady
Mother,
That’s the blood of my brother John,
Because
he wadnae rule by me.
Oh,
whan will you come back again,
My son David, ho, son David,
Whan
will you come back again?
Come, promise, tell me true.
Whan
the sun an’ the moon meets in yon glen,
Hey lady Mother,
ho, lady Mother,
Whan the sun an’ the moon meets in yon
glen,
For I’ll return again.
Omie Wise
What
a sorrowful story of poor Omie Wise,
How she was deluded by John
Lewis’s lies.
He
told her he’d meet her at Adams’ spring;
He promised
her money and other fine things.
So
fool-like, she met him at Adams’ spring;
She found there
no money, nor other fine things.
“John
Lewis, John Lewis, won’t you tell me your mind,
Do
you intend to marry me, or leave me behind?”
“Little
Omie, Little Omie, I’ll tell you my mind:
My mind it is to
drown you and leave you behind.”
“Take
pity on my baby, and spare me my life;
I’ll go home as a
beggar, and never be your wife.”
He
kissed her, and hugged her,
and turned her around,
And
threw her in the river,
where he knew that she would drown.
Two
boys went a-fishing upon a fine day.
They saw Little Omie’s
body go floating away.
They
threw a rope around her
and drew her to the bank;
Her
clothes all wet and muddy,
they laid her on a plank.
They
called for John Lewis to come to that place,
And look on Little
Omie, so he might see her face.
It’s
a debt to the devil John Lewis must pay,
For killing Little Omie
and running away.
Tom Dooley
Ch:
Hang
down your head, Tom Dooley,
Hang down your head and cry.
Hang
down your head, Tom Dooley,
Poor boy, you’re bound to die.
Met
her on the mountain,
There I took her life;
Met her on the
mountain,
Stabbed her with my knife.
This
time tomorrow
Reckon where I’d be,
Hadn’t-a
been for Grayson,
I’d-a been in Tennessee.
This
time tomorrow,
Reckon where I’ll be,
Down in some
lonesome valley,
Hangin’ from a white oak tree.
A Saint (No Bones About It!)
Words: Janet Cornwell; Tune: Variant of “Rosin the Beau”
I
once lived a simple existence,
No thrills, but no serious
complaint,
’Til I struck out and got myself martyred,
And
took up the job of a saint.
Now, a saint’s work is helping
the people:
Intercession, and curing of fits;
If you do
your work well for the faithful,
They’ll love you—they’ll
love you to bits.
They’ve
an odd way of showing devotion:
Your holiness doesn’t stay
whole.
They each take a piece of your body
To help them
remember their souls.
So my knee’s in a casket in
Cracow,
My blood’s in a bottle in France,
Rome has my
ear and left elbow,
While Hanover harbors my hands.
I’ve
heard my right foot’s in Ravenna,
While Spain has a span
of my spine—
I’ve toured the great cities of
Europe,
But only one piece at a time.
I get credit for
miracles daily,
But one’s still a mystery to me:
My
skull’s both in Prague and in
Paris,
And all
of
my bones in Dundee!
If
you’d like to apply for a sainthood,
You first let the
Lord have your heart;
Then you do your part for the
faithful,
While the faithful do you for a part.
When the
trumpet is sounded at judgment,
With joyous and triumphant
tone,
And these bones try to rise on that morning,
Lord,
help them to find their way home!
The Streets of Laredo
As
I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo
one day,
I spied a young cowboy, all wrapped in white
linen,
Wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay.
"I
see by your outfit that you are a cowboy."
These words he
did say as I slowly walked by.
"Come sit down beside me and
hear my sad story,
For I'm shot in the chest, and today I must
die."
"'Twas
once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
'Twas once in the
saddle I used to go gay.
First down to Rosie's, and then to the
card-house,
Got shot in the breast, and I'm dying today."
"Oh,
beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
And play the dead
march as you carry me along;
Take me to the valley, and lay the
sod o'er me,
For I'm a
young cowboy and I know I've done wrong."
"Get
six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty maidens to
bear up my pall.
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Roses
to deaden the clods as they fall."
""Go
bring me a cup, a cup of cold water.
To cool my parched lips",
the cowboy then said.
Before I returned, his soul had
departed,
And gone to the round up – the cowboy was dead.
We
beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
And bitterly
wept as we bore him along.
For we loved our comrade,
so
brave, young and handsome,
We
all loved our comrade, although he'd done wrong.
Twa Corbies
As
I was walking a' alane,
I heard twa corbies makin' a mane.
The
tane untae the tither did say,
Whaur sail we gang and dine the
day, O,
Whaur sail we gang and dine the day?
It's
in ahint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain
knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk
and his hound, and his lady fair, O,
But his hawk and his hound,
and his lady fair.
His
hound is tae the hunting gane,
His hawk tae fetch the wild-fowl
hame.
His lady ta'en anither mate,
So we may mak' our
dinner swate, O,
So we may mak' our dinner swate.
Ye'll
sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike oot his bonny blue
e'en.
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,
We'll theek oor nest
when it grows bare, O,
We'll theek oor nest when it grows bare.
There's
mony a ane for him mak’s mane,
But nane sail ken whaur he
is gane.
O'er his white banes when they are bare,
The wind
sail blaw for evermair, O,
The wind sail blaw for evermair.
Waltzing Matilda
First
written in 1895 by Australian poet Banjo
Paterson;
rewritten
in 1903 by Marie Cowan to advertise Billy Tea.
Once
a jolly swagman camped by a billabong
Under
the shade of a coolibah tree,
And
he sang as he watched
and waited till his billy boiled:
"You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me."
Chorus:
Waltzing
Matilda, waltzing Matilda
You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me
And
he sang as he watched
and waited till his billy boiled:
"You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me."
Down
came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong.
Up
jumped the swagman
and grabbed him with glee.
And
he sang as he shoved
that jumbuck in his tucker bag:
"You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me."
Up
rode the squatter, mounted on his thoroughbred.
Down
came the troopers, one, two, and three.
"Where’s
the jolly jumbuck
you've got in your tucker bag?
You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me."
Up
jumped the swagman
and sprang into the billabong;
"You'll
never catch me alive!" said he.
And
his ghost may be heard
as you pass by that billabong:
"You'll
come a-waltzing Matilda, with me."
With
Her Head Tucked
Underneath Her Arm
by R. P. Weston and Bert Lee, 1934
In
the tower of London, large as life,
The ghost of Anne Boleyn
walks, they declare.
Poor Anne Boleyn was once King Henry's wife
Until he made the headsman bob her hair.
Ah, yes, he did
her wrong long years ago,
And she comes up at night to tell him
so.
With
her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the bloody
tower.
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the
midnight hour.
She
comes to haunt King Henry,
She means giving him what-for.
Gadzooks, she's going to tell him off,
She's feeling very
sore,
And just in case the headsman
Wants to give her an
encore,
She's got her head tucked underneath her arm.
With
her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the bloody
tower.
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the
midnight hour.
The
sentries think that it's a football
That she carries in,
And
when they had a few they shout,
"Is Army going to
win?"
They think that it's Red Grange
Instead of poor
old Ann Boleyn,
With her head tucked underneath her arm.
Sometimes
gay King Henry gives a spread
For all his pals and gals, and
ghostly crew.
The headsman craves the joint and cuts the
bread,
Then in comes Anne Boleyn to queer the do.
She holds
her head up with a wild war whoop,
And Henry cries, "Don't
drop it in the soup!"
With
her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the bloody
tower.
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the
midnight hour.
One
night she caught King Henry,
He was in the canteen bar.
Said
he, "Are you Jane Seymour,
Anne Boleyn, or Katherine
Parr?
How
the sweet san perryann do I know who you are,
With
your head tucked underneath your arm?"
With
her head tucked underneath her arm
She walks the bloody
tower.
With her head tucked underneath her arm
At the
midnight hour.