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Stefan's Florilegium


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SI-songbook3-art - 5/24/96

A Collection of Scottish and Irish songs, compiled by Ioseph of Locksley.
This songbook is divided into four parts for ease of downloading. You
are reading part 3 of 4.

NOTE: Also see the files: p-songs-msg, song-sources-msg, songs-msg, songs2-msg,
harps-msg, guitar-art, drums-msg, bardic-msg, Bardic-Guide-art.


This file is a collection of various messages having a common theme that
I have collected from my reading of the various computer networks. Some
messages date back to 1989, some may be as recent as yesterday.

This file is part of a collection of files called Stefan's Florilegium.
These files are available on the Internet at: http://www.florilegium.org

I have done a limited amount of editing. Messages having to do with
seperate topics were sometimes split into different files and sometimes
extraneous information was removed. For instance, the message IDs were
removed to save space and remove clutter.

The comments made in these messages are not necessarily my viewpoints. I
make no claims as to the accuracy of the information given by the
individual authors.

Please respect the time and efforts of those who have written these
messages. The copyright status of these messages is unclear at this
time. If information is published from these messages, please give
credit to the orignator(s).

Thank you,
Mark S. Harris AKA: Lord Stefan li Rous
mark.s.harris@motorola.com stefan@florilegium.org

From: beudach@aol.com (Lord Graeme O'Baoighill)
Newsgroups: rec.org.sca
Subject: Graeme's Aforementioned Songbook
Date: 27 Mar 1995 16:10:41 GMT
Organization: Duchy Tarragon


compiled and transcribed by Joe Bethancourt

<part 3 of 4>

-Geo. W. Johnson
Music by J. A. Butterfield

I have wandered today to the hills Maggie
To watch the scene below
Oh, the creek and the creaking old mill, Maggie
Where we used to long long ago.

The green growth is gone from the hills, Maggie
Where once the daisy's sprung
Oh the creaking old mill is still, Maggie
Since you and I were young.

Oh they say that I'm feeble with age, Maggie
My steps are much slower than then
My face is a well written page, Maggie
And time all alone was the pen.

Chorus: They say we have outlived our time, Maggie
As dated as songs we have sung
But to me you're as fair as you were, Maggie
When you and I were young!



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

(Chorus) And the ocean waves do roll
And the stormy winds do blow
And we poor sa-li-ors go skippin' at the top
While the landlubbers lie down below!

Then up spoke the captain of our gallant ship
And a fine old man was he!
"This sweet mermaid has worned us of our doom;
We shall sink to the bottom of the sea!"

Then up spoke the mate of our gallant ship,
And a fine spoken man was he!
Said "I have a wife in Brooklyn 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!
Said "I have a sweetheart in Salem by the sea,
And tonight she'll be weepin' there for me!"

Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship,
And a crazy old butcher was he!
Said "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 round spun she;
Three times round spun our gallant ship,
And she sank to the bottom of the sea!


-Matt McGinn
copyright 1964 Matt McGinn

CHORUS: Wi' manyura manyah, wi' manyura manyah!
Wi' manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!

Noo I've heard men complain of the jobs they are dain,
When they're hawking the coal, or diggin' the drain.
But whatever they are, there is none that compar'
Wi' manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!

Th' streets of the toon were all kivvered aroon
Wi' stuff that was colourful, gowden and broon,
It was put there, of course, by a big Clydesdale horse!
And they called it manyura, manyura manyah!

I followed its' track wi' a shovel and sack,
And as often as no wi' a pain in me back.
It was all for the rent, and the beautiful scent
Of manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!

But I'm feelin' fu' sore for my job's taken o'er
And everything noo is mechanical power;
And there's naething for me but the sweet memory
Of manyura, manyura, manyura manyah!



Chorus: Step we gaily on we go
Heel for heel and toe for toe
Arm in arm and row on row
All for Marie's wedding.

Over hillways up and down
Myrtle green and bracken brown
Past the sheiling thro' the town
All for sake of Marie.

Plenty herring, plenty meal
Plenty peat to fill her creel
Plenty bonnie bairns as well
That's the toast of Marie.

Cheeks are bright as rowans are
Brighter far than any star
Fairest of them all by far
Is my darlin' Marie.


-Traditional (?)

Some friends of mine in a public bar were playin' dominoes one night
When into the bar a fireman came, his face a chalky white
"What's up?" says Brown, "Have you seen a ghost?
Have you seen me Aunt Mariah?"
"Well, your Aunt Mariah be buggered," says he,
"Th' bleedin' pub's on fire!"

"Well, good!" says Brown, "What a bit of luck! Everybody follow me!"
"It's down to the basement, if the fire's not there, We'll have a grand

old spree!"
Well, we all went down after good old Brown,
The booze you would not miss
And we'd not been down there ten minutes or more
Before we looked quite like this:

CHORUS: And there was Brown all upside down
Lappin' all the whiskey off the floor
"Booze! Booze!" the firemen cried
As they came knockin' at the door (knock knock)
Now don't let 'em in till it's all drunk up
Somebody shouted "MACINTYRE!" (shout)
And we all got blue blind paralytic drunk
When the old Dun Cow caught fire!

Smith walked up to the port-wine tub, gave it just a few hard knocks
Started takin' off his pantaloons, likewise his shoes and socks.
"Well no!" says Brown, "That ain't allowed!"
"Can't do that in here!"
"Don't go washin' your trousers in the port-wine tub
When we've got some Guiness beer!"

Then there came a fiery crash! Half the bloody roof came in!
We were drowned in the fireman's hose till we were almost sober.
So we got some tacks and some old wet socks,
And we tacked ourselves inside
And we sat there gettin' bleary-eyed drunk
While the old Dun Cown got fried!



There's a nice wee lass and her name is Mary Mack
Make no mistake she's the Miss I'm goin' to tak
There's a lot of other chaps that would get upon her track
But I'm thinking that they'd have to get up early.

Chorus: Mary Mack's Father's making Mary Mack marry me
My Father's making me marry Mary Mack
And I'm going tae marry Mary tae get Mary tae take care o' me
We'll all be makin' merry when I marry Mary Mack.

This wee lass she has a lot o' brass
She has alot o' gas, her Father thinks I'm class
And I'd be a silly ass tae let the matter pass
Her Father thinks she suits me fairly.

Noo, Mary and her mother gang an awfu' lot together
In fact ye never see the one or the one without the other
And the fellows often wonder if its Mary or her Mother
Or the both of them together that I'm courtin'.

Noo, the weddin' day's on Wednesday and everything's arranged
Her name will soon be changed tae mine, unless her mind be
And wi' makin' the arrangements, faith, I'm just about deranged

For marriage is an awfu' undertakin'.

It's sure tae be a grand affair and grander than a fair
A coach-and-pair for every Peer, and every pair that's there
We'll dine upon the finest fare, I'm sure t'get my share
If I don't we'll all be very much mistaken!

"Cailini deasa Mhuigheo"

In the days I went a courtin' I was never tired resortin'
To the ale house or the play house or many a house besides
I told me brother Seamus I'd go off and be right famous
And before I'd return again I'd roam the world wide.

Chorus: So, good bye Muirsheen Durkin I'm sick and tired of workin'
No more I'll dig the praties, no longer I'll be fooled
As sure as my name is Carney I'll go off to Californee
Where instead of diggin' praties I'll be diggin' lumps of gold.

I've courted girls in Blarney, in Kanturk and Killarney
In Passage and in Queenstown, that is the Cobh of Cork
So goodbye to all this pleasure for I'm going to take me leisure
And the next time you will hear from me will be a letter from New

Good bye to all the boys at home, I'm sailing far across the foam
To try and make me fortune in far Americay
There's gold and money plenty for the poor and for the gentry
And when I come back again I never more will stray.



CHORUS: Armored cars and tanks and guns came to take away our sons!
But every man must stand behind the men behind the wire!

In the little streets of Belfast, in the dark of early morn,
British soldiers came a-running, wrecking little homes with scorn.
Hear the sobs of crying children, dragging fathers from their beds;
Watch the scenes as helpless mothers watch the blood fall from their

Not for them a judge or jury, nor for them a crime at all,
Being Irish means they're guilty, so they're guilty one and all.
Around the world the truth will echo: Cromwell's men are here again!
England's name again is sullied in the eyes of honest men.

Proudly march behind our banner; proudly march behind our men!
We will have them free to help us build a nation once again!
Come the people, step together, proudly, firmly on your way;
Never fear and never falter, till the boys come home to stay!



Chorus: I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler, I'm a long ways from home
And if you don't like me, well leave me alone
I'll eat when I'm hungry and I'll drink when I'm dry
And if moonshine don't kill me, I'll live till I die.

I've been a moonshiner for many a year,
I've spent all my money on whiskey and beer
I'll go to some hollow and I'll set up my still
And I'll make you a gallon for a ten shilling bill.

I'll go to some hollow in this country
Ten gallons of wash, I can go on a spree
No woman to follow, the world is all mine
And I love none so well as I love the moonshine.

Oh, moonshine, dear moonshine, oh how I love thee
You killed me old father but dare you kill me
Oh, bless all moonshiners and bless all moonshine
Oh, its breath smells as sweet as the dew on the vine.


-Dominic Behan

I am a green on the green boy, and I'm here to sing to you
And in case you didn't know it, I'm Irish thru and thru

No matter where I chance to roam, over land or sea or sky
Beneath the orange, white and green, for Ireland, boys, I'll die!

Chorus: We're off to Dublin in the green, in the green
Where the helmets glisten in the sun
Where the bayonets flash and the rifles crash
To the echo of a Thompson gun.

I am a merry ploughboy and I ploughed the fields all day
Till a sudden thought came to my head that I should roam away

For I'm tired of civilian life since the day that I was born
So I'm off to join the IRA and I'm off tomorrow morn.

Alternate chorus: And we're off to Dublin with the green on the green
And the bayonets glitterin' in the sun
And the Tans they fly like light'nin' from
The rattle of me Thompson gun!

I'll leave aside my pick and spade, I'll leave aside my plough
I'll leave aside my old grey mare, no more I'll need them now

And I'll leave aside my Mary, she's the one that I adore
I wonder if she'll think of me when she hears the rifles roar.

I'll take my Sharps revolver and my bandolero so,
And with my comrades by my side, we'll fight a foreign foe!

I had a girl I left behind, and her name was Mary, dear,
And I hope that she proves true to me whenever I'm not near.

And when the war is over and dear old Ireland's free
I'll take her to the church to wed and a rebel's wife she'll be.


-Percy French

Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight
With people here working by day and by night
They don't sow potatoes, nor barley nor wheat
But there' gangs of them digging for gold in the streets
At least when I asked them that's what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin' for gold
But for all that I found there I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writin' a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed
Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball
Faith, they don't wear a top to their dresses at all.
Oh, I've seen them myself and you could not in truth
Say if they were bound for a ball or a bath
Don't be startin' them fashions now, Mary Macree,
Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course
Well, now he is here at the head of the force
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand
And there we stood talkin' of days that are gone
While the whole population of London looked on
But for all these great powers he's wishful like me
To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea.

There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind
With beautiful shapes nature never designed
And lovely complexions all roses and cream
But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same
That if at those roses you venture to sip
The colors might all come away on your lip
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waitin' for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.


-Thomas Davis

When boyhood's fire was in my blood,
I read of ancient freemen
For Greece and Rome, who bravely stood,
Three hundred men and three men;
And then I prayed I might yet see
Our fetters rent in twain,
And Ireland, long a Province, be
A Nation once again!

CHORUS: A Nation once again!
A Nation once again!
And Ireland, long a Province, be
A Nation once again!

And from that time thru wildest woe,
That hope has shone a far light
Nor could love's brightest Summer glow
Outshine that solemn starlight!
It seemed to watch above my head
In forum, field and fane,
I's angel voice sang round my head:
"A Nation once again!"

It whispered too, that Freedom's Ark
And service high and holy
Would be profaned by feelings dark
And passions vain and lowly,
For Freedom comes from God's Right Hand
And needs a Godly train
And righteous men must make our land
A Nation once again!

So as I grew from boy to man
I bent me to that bidding
My spirit of each selfish plan
And cruel passion ridding
For thus I hoped some day to aid
(Oh, can such hope be vain?)
When my dear country shall be made
A Nation once again!



As I went a walking one morning in May
I met a young couple who fondly did stray
And one was a young maid so sweet and so fair
And the other was a soldier and a brave grenadier.

And they kissed so sweet and comforting as they clung to each
They went arm in arm along the road like sister and brother
They went arm in arm along the road till they came to a stream
And they both sat down together love to hear the nightingale sing.

Well out of his knapsack he took a fine fiddle
He played her such merry tunes that you ever did hear
He played her such merry tunes that the valley did ring
And softly cried the fair maid as the nightingale sings.

Now I'm off to India for seven long years
Drinking wine and strong whiskey instead of strong beer
And if ever I return again it will be in the spring
And we'll both sit down together love to hear the nightingale

So then said the fair maid will you marry me
Oh no, said the soldier however can that be
For I've my own wife at home in my own country
And she is the finest maid that you ever did see.


(Tune: Betsy From Pike)

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon
Where's many the ruction meself had a hand in
Bob Williamson lived, a weaver by trade,
And all of us thought him a stout Orange blade.
On the Twelfth of July, as it yearly did come,
Bob played with his flute to the sound of a drum
You may talk of your harp, your piano or lute
But there's none could compare to the old Orange flute!

But Bob. the deceiver, he took us all in,
And he married a Papist named Briget McGinn
Turned Papish himself, and forsook the Old Cause,
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now the boysof the place made some comment upon it
And Bob had to fly to the Province of Connaught
He took his wife and his fixin's to boot
And, along with the latter, the old Orange flute!

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds,
Said Paters and Aves, and counted his beads,
Till after some time at the Priest's own desire,
He went with the old flute to play in the Choir....
He went with the old flute to play in the Mass,
But the instrument shivered and sighed, Oh Alas!
And try though he would, though it made a great noise,
The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys.."

Bob jumped and he started, and got in a flutter,
And threw the old flute in the blessed Holy Water,
He thought that this charm would bring some other sound:
When he played it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down..."
Now, for all he would whistle and finger and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go,
"Kick The Pope," and "Boyne Water" it freely would sound,
But one Papish squeak in it couldn't be found.

At the Council of Priests that was held the next day,
They decided to banish the old flute away.
They couldn't knock heresy out of its' head,
So they bought Bob a new one to play in its' stead.
Now, the old flute was doomed, and it's fate was pathetic:
T'was fastened and burned at the stake, as heretic!
And as the flames roared around it, they heard a strange noise:
T'was the old flute a-whistlin' "The Protestant Boys!"


(The Clan Connell War Song)
M.J.McAnn cir. 1843

Proudly the note of the trumpet is sounding
Loudly the war-cries arise on the gale
Fleetly the steed by Lough Swilly is bounding
To join the thick squadrons on Saimier's green vale!
On every mountaineer! Strangers to flight or fear!
Rush to the standard of dauntless Red Hugh!
Bonnaught and gallowglass, throng from each mountain
Onward for Erin! O'Donnell abu!

Princely O'Neill to our aid is advancing
With many a chieftain and warrior clan!
A thousand proud steeds in his vanguard are prancing
'Neath the Borderers brave from the banks of the Ban!
Many a heart shall quail under it's coat-of-mail,
Deeply the merciless foeman shall rue
When on his ear shall ring, borne on the breeze's wing
Tyr Connell's dread war cry: O'Donnell abu!

Wildly o'er Desmond the war-wolf is howling
Fearless the eagle sweeps over the plain;
The fox in the streets of the city is prowling
And all who would conquer them are banished, or slain!
On with O'Donnell then! Fight the good fight again!
Sons of Tyr Connell are valiant and true!
Make the proud Saxon feel Erin's avenging steel!
Strike! For your Country! O'Donnell abu!


-Michael MacConnell

When apples still grow in November
When blossoms still bloom from each tree
When leaves are still green in December
It's then that our land will be free
I've wandered her hills and her valleys
And still through her valleys I see
A land that has never known freedom
And only her rivers run free.

I drink to the death of her manhood
Those men who'd rather have died
Than to live in the cold chains of bondage
To bring back their rights were denied
Oh, where are you know when we need you
What burns where the flames used to be
Are you gone like the snows of last winter
And will only our rivers run free.

How sweet is life but we're crying
How mellow the wine but we're dry
How fragrant the rose but it's dying
How gentle the wind but it sighs
What good is in youth when it's aging
What joy is in eyes that can't see
When there's sorrow in sunshine and flowers
And still only our rivers run free.


The piper cam' t'our toon, t'our toon, t'our toon,
The piper cam' t'our toon, and he played merrily!
He played a spring, the laird t'please
A spring brand new from o'er the seas
And then he gave his bags a squeeze,
And played another key!

CHORUS: And wasn'a he a roguie, a roguie, a roguie?
Wasn'a he a roguie, the piper o'Dundee?

He played the "Welcome o'er the Main"
And "Y'se be fou', but I be fain"
And "Auld Stuart's back again!"
With muckle mirth and glee!
He played "The Kirk," he played "The Queir"
"The Mullin Dhu" and "Chevalier"
And "Lang awa' but welcome here!"
Sae sweet and merrily!

It's some got swords, and some got nane,
And some were dancin' mad the lane,
And many a vow of war was ta'en
That night in Amulrie!
There was Tullabardine an' Burleigh,
Stuart, Keith and Ogilvie
And brave Carnegie, wha' but he?
The Piper O'Dundee!



Oh, all the money that 'ere I spent
I spent it in good company
And all the harm that 'ere I did
alas it was to none but me
And all I've done for want of wit
to memory now I can't recall
So fill to me the parting glass,
good night and joy be with you all!

If I had money enough to spend
and leisure time to sit a while
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 enthralled
So fill to me the parting glass
good night and joy be with you all!

Oh, all the comrades that 'ere I had
they are sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that 'ere I had
may wish me one more day to stay
But since it falls unto my lot
that I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
goodnight! And joy be with you all!

-Dominic Behan
(c) copyright 1964, 1965 Cifford Music Ltd.

Come all ye young rebels and list while I sing
For the love of one's country is a terrible thing
It banishes fear like the speed of a flame
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

My name is O'Hanlon and I've just turned sixteen
My home is in Monaghan, it's where I was weaned
I've learned all my life cruel England's to blame
So now I am part of the patriot game.

It's nearly two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA
For I read of those heroes and wanted the same
To play my own part in the patriot game.

I heard how O'Connolly was shot in a chair
His wounds from the battle all bleeding and bare
His fine body twisted, all battered and lame
They soon made him part of the patriot game.

I joined a battalion from dear Bally Bay
And gave up my boyhood so happy and gay
For now as a soldier I'd drill and I'd train
To play my full part in the patriot game

This Ireland of ours has for long been half-free
Six counties are under John Bull's tyranny
And most of our leaders are greatly to blame
For shirkin' their part in the patriot game

I don't mind a bit if I shoot down police
They're lackeys for war, never guardians of peace
But yet at deserters I'll never let aim
For shirkin' their part in the patriot game

But now as I lie here my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained and sold
I wish that my rifle had but given the same
To those quislings who sold out the patriot game.



Oh, Peggy Gordon, you are my darling
Come sit you down upon my knee
And tell me the very reason
Why I am slighted so by thee.

I'm so in love that I can't deny it
My heart lies smothered in my breast
But it's not for you to let the world know it
A troubled mind can know no rest.

I put my head to a glass of brandy,
It was fancy I do declare
For when I'm drinkin', I'm always thinkin'
And wishing Peggy Gordon was here.

I wish I was in some lonesome valley
Where womankind cannot be found
Where the little birds sing upon the branches
And every moment a different sound.



Doon yonder den lives a plooboy lad
An' someday soon he'll be all my ain.

Chorus: And sing laddie-aye, and sing laddie-o
Plooboy laddies are a' the go.

Doon yonder den I could hae gotten a miller
But a' his stoor it woulda garr'd me ill.

Doon yonder den I could hae gotten a merchant
But a' his gear it wasnae worth a groat.

I see him comin' down frae yonder town
Wi' a' his ribbons rolling round and round.


-Andy Stewart

Gentlemen, it is my duty to inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favor, no to seek her for a while
I own she is a creature of character and feature
No words can paint the picture of the Queen of all Argyll!

CHORUS: And if you could have seen her there!
Boys, if you had just been there!
The swan was in her movement and the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden they bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty of the Queen of all Argyll!

On the evening that I mentioned, I passed with light intention
thru a part of our dear country known for beauty and for style
Bein' a place of noble thinkers, of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendor shone the Queen of all Argyll!

So, m'lads I needs must leave you, my intention's no to grieve
Nor indeed would I decieve you, no, I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her, to court her and to tame her
I fear my heart's in danger from the Queen of all Argyll!



Chorus: Horo, the rattlin' bog, there's a bog down in the valley-o
Horo, the rattlin' bog, there's a bog down in the valley-o

And in this hole there was a tree, a rare tree, a rattlin' tree
A tree in the hole and a hole in the bog
and the bog down in the valley-o.

And on this tree there was a limb, a rare limb, a rattlin' limb
A limb on the tree and a tree in the hole
and a hole in the bog
and the bog down in the valley-o.

And on this limb there was a branch, a rare branch, a rattlin' branch
A branch on the limb ... etc.

And on this branch there was a twig, a rare twig, a rattlin' twig
Twig on the branch ... etc.

And on this branch there was a nest, a rare nest, a rattlin' nest
A nest on the branch ... etc.

And in this nest there was an egg, a rare egg, a rattlin' egg
Egg in the nest ... etc.

And on this egg there was a bird, a rare bird, a rattlin' bird
A bird on the egg ... etc.

And on this bird there was a wing, a rare wing, a rattlin' wing
A wing on the bird ... etc.

And on this wing there was a feather, a rare feather, a rattlin'
Feather on the wing ... etc.

And on this feather there was a bug, a rare bug, a rattlin' bug
A bug on the feather ... etc.

And on this bug there was a hair, a rare hair, a rattlin' hair
Hair on the bug ... etc.

And on this hair there was a moose, a rare moose, a rattlin' moose
Moose on the hair ... etc.

Note: This could go on forever and three days after, but "agus fagaimid
siud mar ata se!" (we'll leave it as it is!)


-Traditional 19th Cent.
(note: tune is a slip-jig in 9/8 time!)

In the merry month of June, from me home I started
Left the girls of Tuam nearly broken hearted
Saluted father dear, kissed me darlin' mother
Drank a pint of beer me grief and tears to smother
Then off to reap the corn, leave where I was born,
Cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghost and goblin
A brand new pair of brogues, rattlin o'er the bogs
And frightenin' all the dogs on the rock road to Dublin

CHORUS: One, two, three, four, five
Hunt the hare and turn her
Down the rocky road, another way to Dublin
whack fol-laddie-ah!

In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary
Started by daylight next mornin' blithe and early
Took a drop of the pure to keep me heart from sinkin'
That's the Paddy's cure whenever he's on for drinkin'
See the ladies smile, laughin' all the while,
At me curious style, would set your heart a bubblin'
Asked me was I hired, wages I required,
Till I was nearly tired on the rocky road to Dublin

In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity
To be soon deprived a view of that fine city
So then I took a stroll all amoung the quality
My bundle it was stole all in a neat locality
Something crossed me mind, when I looked behind
No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin'
Enquirein' for the rogue, they said me Connacht brogue
Wasn't much in vogue on the rock road to Dublin

From there I got away, me spirits never failing
Landed on the quay just as the ship was sailing
The captain at me roared, said that no room had he
When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy:
Down amoung the pigs, played some funny rigs,
Danced some hearty jigs the water round me bubblin'
When off Holyhead, wished meself was dead,
Or better far instead on the rock road to Dublin

Well, the boys of Liverpool, when we safely landed,
Called meself a fool, I could no longer stand it,
Blood began to boil, temper I was losin'
Poor old Erin's Isle they began abusin'
"Hurrah, me Soul!" says I, my shillelagh I let fly
Some Galway boys were nigh and saw I was a hobbelin'
With a loud "Hurray" joined in the affray
We quickly cleared the way on the rocky road to Dublin !


-Ethna Carberry

Oh, see the fleet-foot hosts of men who speed with faces wan
From farmstead and from thresher's 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 streets he stepped smiling proud and young
About the hemp rope around his neck his golden ringlets clung
Oh, there is never a tear in his blue eyes both sad and bright are
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

When he last stepped up that street his shining pike in hand
Behind him marched in grim array a stalwart earnest band
For Antrim town, for Antrim town, he led them to the fray
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.

There is never a one of all your dead, more bravely fell in fray
Than he who marches to his fate on the Bridge of Tomb today
True to the last! True to the last! He treads the upward way
As young Roddy McCorley goes to die on the bridge of Toome today.


-Andy Stewart
copyright (date unk.) Strathmore Music & Film Services

CHORUS: O there's sober men in plenty, and drunkards barely twenty
There are men of over ninety that have never yet kissed a girl
But gie me a ramblin' rover, and from Orkney down to Dover
We will roam the country over and together will face the world!

O there's many that feign enjoyment for merciless employment
Their ambition was this deployment since the minute they left the
They save and scrape and ponder while the rest go out and squander
See the world, and rove and wander, and they're happier as a rule

I've roamed thru all the nations, ta'en delight in all creation
And I've tried a wee sensation where the company did prove kind
And when parting was no pleasure, I've drunk another measure
To the good friends that we treasure for they always are in our minds

For the lassies young and sprightly, them I courted nightly
Where stayin' wasn't likely, for I ramble up and down;
'Cause life it would be hearty, I'd dance at every party,
Meet ramblin' Dan McCarthy and we'll all go on the town!

If you're bent with arth-er-itis, your bowels have got colitis
You have gallopin' bollockitis and you're thinkin' it's time you died
You've been a man of action tho you're lyin' there in traction
You may gain some satisfaction sayin' "Jaysus, at least I tried!"


"O then, tell me Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so"
"Hush, me Bouchall, hush and listen," and his cheeks were all aglow
I bear orders from the captain get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the risin' of the moon.

Chorus: At the rising of the moon, oh the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon.

"O then, tell me Sean O'Farrell, where the gath'rin' is to be"
In the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me
One more word for signal token, whistle up the marchin' tune
With your pike upon your shoulder, by the rising of the moon."

Out from many a mud wall cabin eyes were watching through that night
Many a manly heart was throbbing for the blessed warning light
Murmurs passed along the valleys, like the banshee's lonely croon
And a thousand blades were flashing at the rising of the moon.

There beside the singing river, that dark mass of men were seen
Far above the shining weapons hung their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor, forward, strike the marching tune
And hurrah, my boys, for freedom, tis the rising of the moon.

Well, they fought for poor old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate
Oh what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of ninety eight
Yes, thank God, e'en still are beating hearts in manhood's burning noon

Who would follow in their footsteps at the rising of the moon.



When I came home on Monday night, as drunk as drunk could be
I saw a horse outside the door, where my old horse should be
So I called my wife, (audience shouts: HEY WIFE!)
And I said to her, would you kindly tell to me
Who owns that horse outside my door, where my old horse should be?
Oh, you're drunk, you drunk, you silly old fool,
Can't you plainly see?
That's a lovely sow that my mother sent to me
Well it's many a day I've travelled, a hundred miles or
But a saddle on a sow I've never seen before!

When I came home on Tuesday night......etc.
Saw a coat behind the door......etc.
....Who owns that coat.....
...that's a lovely blanket...
...But buttons on a blanket....etc.

When I came home on Wednesday night.....etc.
I saw a pipe upon the chair, where my old pipe should be..etc.
....Who owns that pipe.....
...That's a lovely tin-whistle that my mother sent to me!
...But tobacco in a tin-whistle I've never seen before!

When I came home on Thursday night......etc.
I saw two boots beneath the bed.......etc.
....Who owns those boots.......etc.
...They're two geranium-pots...etc.
...But laces in geranium-pots....etc.

When I came home on Friday night......etc.
Saw a head upon the bed......etc.
....Who owns that head.........etc.
...That's a baby boy...etc.
...but whiskers on a baby boy...etc.

When I came home on Saturday night....etc.
Saw a rise beneath the sheets.....etc.
....Who owns that rise......
...It's nothing but a shillelagh...etc.
...But knackers on a shillelagh....etc.

(Alternate lyric: "Hammer" "A hammer with a head like that..")

When I came home on Sunday night...etc.
I saw a man walk out the door, a little after three! (shout: A.M.!)
....Who was that man......after three (shout: A.M.!)
...That's an English tax-man....etc.
...But an Englishman that could last till three....etc.


-Eric Bogle

Somebody's moggy by the side of the road
Somebody's kitty who forgot his Highway Code!
Someone's favorite feline, who ran clean out of luck,
When he ran into the street and tried to argue with a truck!

Yesterday he'd birded and played in his kitty Paradise,
Decapitating tweety-birds and masticating mice!
Now he's just six pounds of raw mince-meat
That don't smell very nice.....
He's nobody's moggy now!

So if you love your kitty, be sure to keep him in,
Don't let him argue with a truck; the truck is bound to win!
If you let him play in the roadway I'm afraid that will be that
There will be one last despairing "meow!"
And a sort of sqelchy splat!
And your kitty will be slightly dead, and very, very flat!
He's nobody's moggy
Just red and squashed and soggy......!
He's nobody's moggy now!



Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel to e'en our Scottish name sae famed in sang and story...
Now Sark runs tae th' Solway sands, and Tweed runs t'th'ocean..
Tae mark whaur England's Province stands:
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue through many warlike ages
Is wrought now by a coward few for hireling traitor's wages.
The English steel we could disdain, secure in valor's station..
But English gold has been our bane:
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!

Oh, would or had I seen the day that treason thus could sell us!
My auld grey head had lain in clay w'Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But, pith and power, till my last hour, I'll make this declaration:
We were bought and sold for English gold!
Sic a parcel of rogues in a nation!


(last 2 verses by Rich Bailey)

A Scotsman clad in kilt left a bar one evening fair
And one could tell by how he walked he'd drunk more than his share
He stumbled on until he could no longer keep his feet
Then staggered off into the grass to sleep, beside the street

CHORUS: A ring-di-diddle-e-di do, a-ring-di-diddle-i-day
He staggered off into the grass to sleep beside the street.

(following choruses as above, repeating last line of verse)

A pair of young and lovely girls just happened to come by
And one said to the other, with a twinkle in her eye:
"You see yon sleeping Scotsman, so strong and handsome built..
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt?"

They crept upon the sleeping Scotsman, quiet as could be,
And lifted up his kilt above the waist, so they could see..
And there, behold, for them to view, beneath his Scottish skirt
T'was nothing but what God has graced him with upon his birth!

They marveled for a moment, then one said: "We'd best be gone.
But let's leave a present for our friend before we move along!"
So as a gift, they left a blue silk ribbon, tied into a bow,
Around the Bonnie Star the Scottish kilt did lift and show!

The Scotsman woke to Nature's Call, and stumbled towards a tree
Behind the bush, he lifts his kilt, and gawks at what he sees!
Then, in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes:
"I ken na' whaur y'been, m'lad, but I see y'won First Prize!"

Our Scottish friend, still dressed in kilt, continued up the street
He hadn't gone ten yards or more, when a lass he chanced to meet.
She said: "I've heard what's underneath there, tell me, is it so?"
He said: "Just slip your hand up, lass, if y'really want to know!"

So she slipped her hand right up his kilt, and much to her surprise,
The Scotsman smiled, and a very strange look came into his eyes,
She said: "Why, sir, that's gruesome!" And then she heard him roar:
"If you stick yer hand up once again, you'll find it grew some


(Circa 1745?)
-recorded by The Silly Sisters

Ah, who will play the Silver Whistle?
When my King's son to sea is going?
As Scotland prepares; prepares his coming!
Upon a dark ship on the ocean......

The ship it has three masts of silver
With ropes so light, of French silk woven!
So bonnie then, are six golden pulleys
To bring my King's son ashore, and landing.....

When my King's son he comes back home
No bruising stones will put before him!
Loaves of bread, bread will be baking
For Charles, with eyes so blue, enticing.......

Ah, welcome to you, Fame and Honour!
Pipes with tunes of joy attend you!
I will be dancing! I will be singing!
And I will play the Silver Whistle.............

And I will play the Silver Whistle!



Some say the devil's dead
Some say he's hardly,
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.....


-John MacEvoy
(Tune: "Villikins and His Dinah" aka: "Sweet Betsy From Pike", aka "The Old
Orange Flute" etc.)

Oh, the Dean of Westminister was a powerful man,
He held all the strings of the State in his hand,
But wi' a' this great business it flustered him nane,
Till some rogues ran away with his wee magic stane!

CHORUS: Sing too-ra-lie-oo-ra-lie-oo-ra-lie-ay!

Noo the stane had great powers that could do sic a thing
And withoot it, it seemed, we'd be wantin' a King,
So he called in the polis, and gave this decree:
"Go and hunt oot the stane and return it to me!"

So the polis went beetlin' up tae the North
They huntit the Clyde and they huntit the Forth,
But the wild folk up yonder just kidded them a'
For they did not believe it was magic at a'!

Noo the Provost o' Glascow, Sir Victor by name,
Was awfy pit oot when he heard of the stane,
So he offert the statues that staun' in the Square
That the high church's masons might mak' a few mair!

When the Dean of Westminister with this was acquaint,
He sent for Sir Victor and made him a Saint!
"Now it's no use your sending your statues down heah,"
Said the Dean, "But you've given me a jolly good ideah!"

So he quarried a stane of the very same stuff
An' he dressed it all up 'till it looked like enough
Then he sent for the Press and announced that The Stane
Had been found and returned to Westminister again.

When the reivers found out what Westminister had done
They went aboot diggin' up stanes by the ton!
And fur each wan they finished they entered the claim
that THIS was the true and original stane!

Noo the cream o' the joke still remains tae be tell't
Fur the bloke that was turnin' them off on the belt
At th' peak o' production was so sorely pressed
That the real one got bunged in along wi' th' rest!

So if y'ever come up on a stane wi' a ring
Just sit yersel' doon and appoint yersel' King!
Fur there's nane would be able t' challenge yer claim,
That ye'd croont yersel King on the Destiny Stane!

Note: This song commemorates the theft of the Stone of Scone
by Scots Nationalists in 1951.....


-The Kipper Family

Well, as I come home on Monday night
I'd had nothin' at all t'drink
I saw a horse behind the door....
Well, that made me stop and think!
A coat, some boots, a pipe I spied,
And then upstairs I ran.
And there in bed, beside my wife,
Was a great big hairy man!
Oh you come bargin' in, she cried,
You've put him off his thrust,
For me and the village smith, she cried,
Are practicin' our Lust!

CHORUS: As I come home each night
Me troubles all begin
For there's the Missus practicin'
The Seven Deadly Sins!

Well, as I came home on Tuesday night
As sober as a Judge
I saw no tea upon my plate
Where my old tea should lodge
So I called my wife and I said to her
Well, here's a rum old do!
I got no tea upon my plate
Is it somethin' to do with you?
Well, sin of sin of sins, she said
There's nothin' for your tea
For I have been a-practicin'
The Sin of Gluttony!

Well, as I come home on Wednesday night
As dry as any old bone
I saw the cat upon the stairs
Where that should not have gone
So I called my wife and I said to her
Well, what's all this here, then?
Why is the cat all on the stairs
Where that should never have been?
I'm upstairs practicin' Pride, she said
In my best Sunday hat
Pride comes before a fall, says I,
Then I fell over the cat!

Well, as I come home on Thursday night
Me tongue all hangin' out
I saw no books upon the shelf;
They was all strewed about.
So I called my wife and I says to her
Don't tell me, let me guess:
You've found another Deadly Sin
That's called Untidyness!
She said I'm a-tryin' to find out
What Covetousness means
I wish we owned that Diction'ry
We saw round at the Dean's!

Well, as I come home on Friday night
A-gaspin' for a wet
I saw no spouse upon the chair
Where my ol' spouse do set
So I called my wife and I says to her
Well, what's a-goin' on?
I left my spouse upon this chair
Wherever has she gone?
Look up! Look up! You silly old fool!
I'm hangin' from the light
For I am practicin' Sloth, she said,
And I'll be here half the night!



Hark when the night is fallin', hear, hear the pipes a-callin'
Loudly and proudly callin' down thru the glen
There where the hills are sleepin', now feel the blood a-leapin'
High as the spirits of the old highland men!
Towering in gallant fame, Scotland the mountain hame!
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!
Land of the high endeavour, land of the shining river,
Land of my heart, forever! Scotland the brave!

High in the misty highlands, out by the purple islands,
Brave are the hearts that beat beneath Scottish skies!
Wild are the winds to meet you, staunch are the friends that greet
Kind as the light that shines from fair maiden's eyes!
Towering in gallant fame, Scotland, my mountain hame!
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!
Land of the high endeavour, land of the shining river,
Land of my heart, forever! Scotland the brave!

Far-off in sunlit places, sad are the Scottish faces,
Yearnin' t'feel the kiss of sweet Scottish rain!
Where tropic skies are beamin', love sets the heart a-dreamin',
Longin' and dreamin' for the homeland again!
Towering in gallant fame, Scotland, my mountain hame!
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!
Land of the high endeavour, land of the shinin' river,
Land of my heart, forever! Scotland the brave!

Hot as a burning ember, flaming in bleak December
Burning within the hearts of clansmen afar!
Calling to home and fire, calling the sweet desire,
Shining a light that beckons from every star!
Towering in gallant fame, Scotland, my mountain hame!
High may your proud standards gloriously wave!
Land of the high endeavour, land of the shinin' river,
Land of my heart, forever! Scotland the brave!


-Ewan MacColl

With our nets and boats we were farin'
On the wide and wasteful ocean
It's out there on the deep that we harvest our herd
As we hunt the bonnie shoals of herring.

It was on a fair and pleasant day
Out of Yarmouth harbour I was farin'
As a cabin boy on a sailin' lugger
For to hunt the bonnie shoals of herring.

Now we left our homes in the month of June
And for Grannoch Shiels we soon were farin'
With a hundred cran of the silver darlin'
That we'd taken from the shoals of herring.

Now the work was hard and the hours were long
And the treatment sure it took some bearin'
And I used to sleep standing on my feet
And I'd dream about the shoals of herring.

Now you're up on deck you're a fisherman
And you're learning all about sea farin'
That's your education: scraps of navigation
As you hunt the bonnie shoals of herring.

In the biting wind and the driving rain
Sure you earn the gear that you're wearing
Sailed ten thousand miles, caught ten thousand fishes
As we hunt the bonnie shoals of herring.


Chorus: Speed bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing
"Onward!" the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that's born to be King
Over the sea to Skye.

Loud the wind howls, loud the waves roar
Thunder claps rend the air
Baffled our foes, stand on the shore
Follow they will not dare.

Many's the lad fought on that day
Well the claymore did wield
When the night came silently lay
Dead on Culloden field.

Though the waves leap, soft will he sleep
Ocean's a royal bed
Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep
Watch by his weary head.

Burned are our homes, exile and death
Scatter the loyal men;
Yet ere the Sword cool in the Sheath
Charlie will come again!

-Mrs. Norman MacLeod Sr.
-Last verse by Joe Bethancourt

Sound the pibroch loud and high
From John O'Groats to the Isle of Skye!
Let all the Clans their slogan cry
And rise tae follow Charlie!

(Chorus) Tha tighin fodham, fodham, fodham (3X)
To rise and follow Charlie!

And see a small devoted band
By dark Loch Shiel have ta'en their stand
And proudly vow w'heart and hand
To fight for Royal Charlie!

Frae every hill and every glen
are gatherin' fast the loyal men
They grasp their dirks and shout again:
"Hurrah! for Royal Charlie!"

On dark Culloden's field of gore
Hark! They shout: "Claymore! Claymore!"
They bravely fight; what can they more?
They die for Royal Charlie!

How on the barren heath they lie
Their funeral dirge the eagles cry,
And mountain breezes o'er them sigh
What fought and died for Charlie.

No more we'll see such deeds again
Deserted is each Highland glen
And lonely cairns are o'er the men
Who fought and died for Charlie!

The White Rose blossoms forth again
Deep in sheltered Highland glens
And soon we'll hear the cry we ken:
Tae rise! And fight for Charlie!

(note: "tha tighin fodham" is pronounced HA CHEEN FOAM
and means "it comes upon me" or "I have the wish."



Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by
My mind bein' bent on ramblin' to Ireland I did fly
I stepped aboard a vision, and followed with my will
Till next I came to anchor at the Cross near Spancil Hill

Delighted by the novelty, enchanted with the scene
Where in my early boyhood, where often I had been
I thought I heard a murmur, and I think I hear it still
It's the little stream of water that flows down by Spancil Hill

It being the 23rd of June, the day before the Fair
When Ireland's sons and daughters in crowds assembled there
The young, the old, the brave and bold, they came for sport and kill
There were jovial conversations at the Cross of Spancil Hill

I went to see my neighbors, to hear what they might say
The old ones were all dead and gone, the young ones turning grey
I met with tailor Quigley, he's as bold as ever still
Sure, he used to make my britches when I lived in Spancil Hill

I paid a flying visit to my first, and only, love
She's white as any lily, and gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me, sayin' "Johnny I love you still!"
She's Nell, the farmer's daughter, and the pride of Spancil Hill

I dreamt I stopped and kissed her as in the days of yore
She said "Johnny, you're only joking, as many times before."
The cock crew in the morning, he crew both loud and shrill
And I woke in California, many miles from Spancil Hill.


-Paddy Dunn

Sullivan's John to the road you've gone,
far away from your native home
You've gone with the tinker's daughter
far along the road to roam
Sullivan's John sure you won't stick it long
when your belly will soon get slack
When you're roaming the road with a mighty load
and a toodle box on your back.

I met Katy Coffey with her neat baby
behind on her back strapped on
She'd an old ash plant all in her hand
for to drive her donkey on
Enquiring at every farmer's house
that along the road she passed
Where would she find an old pot to mend
and where would she swap an ass.

There's a hairy ass fair in the County Claire
in a place they call Spancil Hill
Where my brother James got a rap on the head
and poor Paddy they tried to kill.
They loaded him up in an ass and cart
while Kate and Mary stood by
Bad luck to the day that I went away
to join with the tinkers band.



Near Banbridge town in the County Down
One morning last July
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two bare feet
To the sheen of her nut brown hair
Such a coaxing elf, sure I shook myself
For to see I was really there.

CHORUS: From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I've seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down!

She'd a soft brown eye and a look so sly
And a smile like the 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 thru a reel or a jig,
And when her eyes she'd roll, she'd coax, on my soul,
A spud from a hungry pig!

I've travelled a bit, but never was hit
Since my roving career began,
But, fair and square, I surrendered there
To the charms of young Rosie McAnn!
With a heart to let, and no tenant yet,
Did I meet in shawl or gown,
But in she went, and I asked no rent
From the Star of the County Down!

As she onward sped sure I scratched my head
And I looked with a feeling rare
And I says, says I, to a passer by,
"Who's the maid with the nut brown hair?"
He smiled at me and he said, said he,
"That's the gem of Ireland's crown.
Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Ban,
She's the star of the County Down."

At the harvest fair she'll be surely there,
So I'll dress in my Sunday clothes
With my shoes shone bright and my hat cocked right
For a smile from my nut brown Rose
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke,
Till my plough is a rust coloured brown
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the star of the County Down.


<end part 3 of 4>
<the end>

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