Irische Lieder / Irish songs

Auf dieser Seite haben wir die Texte von irischen Liedern zusammengesammelt, die thematisch zu den von uns besuchten Orten passen. Für die Texte gibt es verschiedenen Quellen und immer wieder gibt es Abweichungen zwischen diesen Quellen. Im Zweifelsfall haben wir uns für die uns geläufige Version entschieden.

On this page we have collected the lyrics of Irish songs that thematically match the locations we visited. For the lyrics there are various source and often there are differences between these source. When in doubt we decided to use the version we are more familiar with.

Cockles and Mussles (Molly Malone)


In Dublin's fair city where the girls are so pretty
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow
thro' the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!

She was a fishmonger, and sure 't was no wonder
For so were her father and mother before;
And they both wheeled their barrow
Through the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!

She died of a fever, and no one could save her
And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone
But her ghost wheels her barrow
Thro' the streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Alive alive O!
Crying cockles and mussels
Alive alive O!

The Foggy Dew

(Father P. O'Neill)

(Dieses Lied wurde geschrieben für jene Männer, die im Osteraufstand 1916 in Dublin kämpften und starben.
This song was written for the men who fought and died in the Easter Rising of 1916 in Dublin.)

As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men in squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town they hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through;
While Britannia's sons with their long-range guns sailed in from the foggy dew.

Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crackm ade perfidious Albion reel.
In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel.
By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to Ireland her sons be true.
But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew.

'Twas England bade our wild geese go that small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves on the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Gathal Bruga,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep 'neath the hills of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell, and the solemn bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze at those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore.
For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more.
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.

Danny Boy (Londonderry Air)

(Fred Weatherly)

(Fred Weatherly schrieb ein Gedicht, das er dann mit der Melodie von "Londonderry Air" vertonte.
Fred Weatherly wrote a poem which he then set to the music of "Londonderyy Air".)

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying
'tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come you back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
And I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You'll come and 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 all my dreams will warm and sweeter be
If you will bend and tell me that you love me
Then I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

Some Say The Devil Is Dead

(Derek Warfield)

Some say the Devil is dead, Devil is dead, the Devil is dead
Some say the Devil is 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

Feed the pigs and milk the cow, milk the cow, milk the cow
Feed the pigs and milk the cow and early in the morning
Cock your leg up Paddy dear, Paddy dear I'm over here
Cock your leg up Paddy dear it's time to stop your yawnin'

Katie she is tall and thin, tall 'n thin, tall 'n thin
Katie she is tall and thin and likes her drops of Brandy
Drinks it in the bed each night, drinks it in the bed each night
Drinks it in the bed each night, it makes her nice and randy

Some say the Devil is dead, Devil is dead, the Devil is dead
Some say the Devil is 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

My man is six foot tall, six foot tall, he's six foot tall
My man is six foot tall and likes his sugar candy
Goes to bed at 6 o'clock, goes to bed at 6 o'clock
Goes to bed at 6 o'clock he's lazy fat and bandy

Some say the Devil is dead, Devil is dead, the Devil is dead
Some say the Devil is 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

My wife she has the hairy thing, hairy thing, a hairy thing
The wife she has a hairy thing she showed to me on Sunday
She bought it in a furrier shop, a furrier shop, a furrier shop
She bought it in a furrier shop, it's going back on Monday

Some say the Devil is dead, Devil is dead, the Devil is dead
Some say the Devil is 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.

The Mountains of Mourne

(Lyrics: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's 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 digging 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 writing a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed
Well, if you believe me, when asked to the 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 starting them fashions now, Mary Macree
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I've seen England's king from the top of a bus
I've never known him, tho' he means to know us
And tho' by the Saxon we once were oppressed
Still I cheered, God forgive me, I cheered with the rest
And now that he's visited Erin's green shore
We'll be much better friends than we've been heretofore
When we've got all we want we're as quiet as can be
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 hand of the Force.
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with one wave of his hand
And there we stood talking 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
More 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 colours might all come away on your lip.
So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

The Rose of Tralee

(Mordaunt Spencer/Charles William Glover)

Oh, the pale moon was rising above the green mountain,
The sun was declining beneath the blue sea.
When I strayed with my love by the pure crystal fountain
That stands in the beautiful Vale of Tralee.

She was lovely and fair as the rose in the summer.
Yet 'twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh! no 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning
That made me love Mary the Rose of Tralee.

The cool shades of evening their mantles were spreading
And Mary, all smiling, sat listening to me.
The moon thro' the valley her pale rays was shedding
When I won the heart of the Rose of Tralee.

Tho' lovely and fair as the rose of the summer
Yet, 'twas not her beauty alone that won me.
Oh! no 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning
That made me love Mary the Rose of Tralee.

Whiskey in the Jar


As I was going over the far famed Kerry Mountains
I met with Captain Farrell and his money he was counting.
I first produced my pistol and then produced my rapier,
Saying 'Stand and deliver for you are my bold deceiver'

With your whack fol the diddle day, whack fol the diddle oh
Whack fol the diddle oh there's whiskey in the jar.

I counted out my money and it gave a pretty penny
I put it in my pocket and I gave it to my Jenny
She sighed and she swore that she never would deceive me
But the devil take the women for they never can be easy.

I went into my chamber for to take a slumber
I dreamed of golden jewels and sure it was no wonder
For Jenny took my charges and filled them up with water
And sent for Captain Farrell to be ready for the slaughter.

'Twas early in the morning before I rose to travel
The guards were all around me and likewise Captain Farrell
I then produced my pistol for she stole away my rapier
But I couldn't shoot the water so a prisoner I was taken.

If anyone can aid me it's my brother in the army
I think that he is stationed in Cork or in Killarney.
And if he'd come to join me, we'd go roving in Kilkenny
I swear he'd treat me fairer than me darling sporting Jenny.

The Curragh of Kildare


Oh the winter it is passed and the summer's come at last
And the small birds are singing in the trees.
Their little hearts are glad but mine is very sad
For my true love is far away from me.

Oh the rose upon the briar and the clouds that float so high
Bring joy to the linnet and the bee
And their little hearts are blessed but mine can know no rest
Since my true love is far away from me.

All you that are in love and cannot it remove
I pity all the pain that you endure
For experience let me know that your heart is full of woe
It's a woe no water can cure

A livery I will wear and I'll comb back my hair
And in velvet so green I will appear
And straight I will repair to the Curragh of Kildare
For it's there I'll find tidings of my dear.

The Glendalough Saint


In Glendalough lived once a saint, renowned for his learning and piety
His manners was curious and quaint and he looked upon girls with disparity.

He was fond of reading a book when he could get one to his wishes.
He was fond of casting his hook in among the ould fishes.

But one evening he landed a trout, he landed a fine big trout, sir.
When young Kathleen from over the way came to see what the ould 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 wouln't tain 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 seating therein, a-polishing up his ould crockery.

Well he gave the poor creature a shake and I wish that the Garda had got him!
For he threw her right into the lake and, by Jaysus, she sank to the bottom.

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls

(Thomas Moore 1779-1852)

The harp that once through Tara's halls the soul of music shed
Now hangs as mute on Tara's wall as if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days so glory's thrill is o'er
And hearts that once beat high for praise feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright, the harp of Tara swells.
The chord alone that breaks at night, it's tale of ruin tells.
This freedom now so seldom wakes, the only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks, to show that still she lives.

Master McGrath

(Master McGrath war ein Windhund der dreimal den begehrten Waterloo Cup für Irland gewann.
Master McGrath was a greyhound who won the coveted Waterloo Cup for Ireland three times.)

Eighteen sixtynine being the date of the year,
The Waterloo sportsmen, they all did appear
To win the great prize and to bear it away,
Never counting on Ireland and Master McGrath.

And when they arrived there in big London town,
The great English sportsmen, they all gathered 'round.
One of the gentlemen gave a ha-ha,
"Is that the great dog you call Master McGrath?"

Lord Lurgon stepped forward and he said, "Gentlemen,
If there are any among you have money to spend,
For your great English greyhound I don't care a straw.
Five thousand to one upon Master McGrath."

White Rose stood uncovered, the great English pride;
Her trainer and owner were both by her side.
They led her away and the crowd cried, "Hurrah!"
For the pride of all England and Master McGrath.

As Rose and the Master, they both ran along,
"I wonder," said Rose, "what took you from home.
You should have stayed there in your Irish domain
And not come to gain laurels on Albion's plains."

"I know, " said McGrath, "we have wild heather bogs,
But you'll find in old Ireland we have good men and dogs.
Lead on, bold Britannia, give none of your jaw,
Snuff that up your nostrils," said Master McGrath.

The hare she led on, what a beautiful view,
As swift as the wind o'er the green fields she flew.
He jumped on her back and he held up his paw,
"Three cheers for old Ireland," said Master McGrath.

I've known many greyhounds that filled me with pride
In the days that are gone and it can't be denied,
But the greatest and the bravest the world ever saw
Was our champion of champions, brave Master McGrath.

The Meeting of the Waters

(Thomas Moore 1779-1852)

There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
Oh the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.

Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill
Oh! no - it was something more exquisite still.

'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.

Sweet Vale of Avoca! how calm cold I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease
And out hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.

Old Skibbereen


Oh, father dear, I often hear you speak of Erin's isle,
Her lofty scenes, her valleys green, her mountains rude and wild.
They say it is a lovely land wherein a prince might dwell.
Oh, why did you abandon it, the reason to me tell.

Oh, son, I loved my native land with energy and pride
Till a blight came o'er my crops, my sheep, my cattle died.
My rent and taxes were too high, I could not them redeem
And that's the cruel reason that I left old Skibbereen.

Oh, well do I remember the bleak December day,
The landlord and the sheriff came to drive us all away.
They set my roof on fire with cursed English spleen
And that's another reason that I left old Skibbereen.

Your mother, too, God rest her soul, fell on the snowy ground.
She fainted in her anguish, seeing the desolation ground.
She never rose, but passed away from life to mortal dream
And found a quiet grave, my boy, in dear old Skibbereen.

And you were only two years old and feeble was your frame,
I could not leave you with my friends, you bore your father's name -
I wrapt you in my cotamore at the dead of night unseen,
I heaved a sigh and bade good-bye, to dear old Skibbereen.

O, father dear, the day may come when in answer to the call
Each Irishman, with feelings stern, will rally one and all.
I'll be the man to lead the van beneath the flag of green
When loud and high we'll raise the cry - "Remember Skibbereen".

The Rare Ould Times

(Pete St. John)

Raised on songs and stories heroes of renown,
The passing tales and glories that once was Dublin Town.
The hallowed halls and houses, the haunting children's rhymes
That once was Dublin City in the rare ould times.

Ring-a-ring-a rosey, as the light declines,
I remember Dublin City in the rare ould times.

My name it is Sean Dempsey, as Dublin as can be
Born hard and raised in Pimlico, in a house that ceased to be.
By trade I was a cooper, lost out to redundancy,
Like my house that fell to progress, my trade's a memory.

And I courted Peggy Dignan, as pretty as you please,
A rogue and a Child of Mary, from the rebel Liberties.
I lost her to a student chap, with skin as black as coal,
When he took her off to Birmingham, she took away my soul.

The years have made me bitter, the gargle dims my grain,
'Cause Dublin keeps on changing, and nothing seems the same.
The Pillar and the Met have gone, the Royal long since pulled down
As the great unyielding concrete, makes a city of my town.

Fare thee well sweet Anna Liffey, I can no longer stay,
And watch the new glass cages that spring up along the Quay.
My mind's too full of memories, to old to hear new chimes,
I'm part of what was Dublin, in the rare ould times.

The Stone Outside Dan Murphy's Door

(John Francis Patterson)

There's a sweet garden spot in our memory
It's the place we were born in and reared
It's long years ago since we left it
But return there we will if we're spared
Our friends and companions of childhood
Would assemble each night near a score
Round Dan Murphy's shop, and how often we sat
On the stone outside Dan Murphy's door.

Those days in our hearts we will cherish
Contented although we were poor
And the songs that were sung
In the days we were young
On the stone outside Dan Murphy's door.

When our day's work was over we'd meet there
In the winter or spring just the same
Then the boys and the girls all together
Would join in some innocent game
Dan Murphy would take down his fiddle
While his daughter looked after the store
The music did ring and sweet songs we would sing
On the stone outside Dan Murphy's door.

Back again will our thoughts often wander
To the scenes of our childhood's home
The friends and companions we left there
It was poverty caused us to roam
Since then in this life we have prospered
But still in our hearts we feel sore
For memory will fly to those days long gone by
And the stone outside Dan Murphy's door.

The Fields Of Athenry

(Pete St. John)

By a lonely prison wall
I heard a young girl calling
"Michael they are taking you away
For you stole Travellyn´s corn
so that the young might see the morn´
Now the prison ship lies waiting in the bay"

Low lie the fields of Athenry
Where once we watched
the small free birds fly
Our love was on the wing
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 ran me down
Now you must raise our child with dignity"

By a lonely harbour wall
she watched the last star falling
While the prison ship
sailed out against the sky
Sure she wait and hope and pray
for her love in Botany Bay
It's so lonely round the fields of Athenry

It's a Long Way to Tipperary

(Jack Judge/Harry Williams)

Up to mighty London
Came an Irishman one day
As the streets are paved with gold
Sure, everyone was gay
Singing songs of Piccadilly,
Strand and Leicester Square
Till Paddy got excited
And he shouted to them there.

It's a long way to Tipperary,
It's a long way to go.
It's a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly,
Farewell Leicester Square!
It's a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.

Paddy wrote a letter
To his Irish Molly-O,
Saying, "Should you not receive it
Write and let me know!"
"If I make mistakes in spelling,
Molly dear," said he,
"Remember, it's the pen that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me!"

Molly wrote a neat reply
To Irish Paddy-O
Saying Mike Maloney
Wants to marry me and so
Leave the Strand and Picadilly
Or you'll be to blame
For love has fairly drove me silly:
Hoping you're the same!

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 MacEvoy
A terror to Australia was the wild colonial boy.

For two long years this daring youth ran on his wild career.
With a heart that knew no danger, and their justice he did not fear.
He robbed the lordly squatters, their flocks he would destroy.
A terror to Australia was the wild colonial boy

He bade the judge "Good morning!" and he told him to beware.
For he never robbed an honest judge who acted "on the square".
"Yet you would rob a mother of her son and only joy
And breed a race of outlaws like the wild colonial boy!"

One morning on the prairie, as Jack he rode along
A-listening to the mocking bird, a-singing a cheerful song
Up stepped a band of troopers: Kelly, Davis and Fitzroy
They 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, you are a plundering son
Jack drew 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.

Raglan Road

(Text: Patrick Kavanagh; Music: Thomas Connellan)

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay –
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind, I gave her the secret sign
That's known to the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone.
And her words and tint without stint, I gave her poems to say
With her own name there and her own dark hair, like clouds over fields of May.

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet, I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly, my reason must allow
That I have not loved as I should a creature made of clay,
When the angel woos the clay he'll lose his wings at the dawn of day.

Nelson's Farewell

(Author: Joe Dolan)

Well, that poor old Admiral Nelson is no longer in the air,
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
On the eighth day of March in Dublin City fair,
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
From his stand of stones and mortar,
He fell crashing through the quarter,
Where once he stood so stiff and proud and rude,
So let's sing our celebration,
It's a service to the nation.
So poor Admiral Nelson Tooraloo.

Oh fifty pounds of gelignite It sped him on his way,
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
And the lad that laid the charge, we're in debt to him today
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
In Trafalgar Square it might be fair
to leave ould Nelson standing there
But no-one tells the Irish what they'll view.
Now the Dublin Corporation
can stop deliberations,
For the boys of Ireland showed them what to do.

For a hundred and fifty seven years it stood up there in state,
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
To mark ould Nelson's victory o'er the French and Spanish fleet,
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
But one-thirty in the morning,
without a bit of warning,
Poor Nelson took a powder and he blew.
Oh at last the Irish nation
has Parnell in higher station
Than poor old Admiral Nelson tooraloo.

Well the Russians and the Yanks with lunar probes they play
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
And I hear the French are trying hard to make up lost headway
Sing toora loora loora looraloo,
But now the Irish join the race
we've got an astronaut up in space
Ireland, boys, is now a world power too
So let's sing our celebration,
it's a service to the nation,
So poor Admiral Nelson tooraloo.'s_Pillar


Well, if you've got a wing-o,
Take her up to Ring-o
Where the waxies sing-o
all the day;
If you've had your fill of porter,
And you can't go any further
Give your man the order:
"Back to the Quay!"
And take her up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take her up to Monto,
lan-ge-roo, To you!

You've heard of Buckshot Forster,
The dirty old impostor
He took his mot and lost her,
up the Furry Glen.
He first put on his bowler
And buttoned up his trousers,
Then whistled for a growler
and he said, "My man!"
Take me up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Take me up to Monto,
lan-ge-roo, To you!

You've seen the Dublin Fusiliers,
The dirty old bamboozeleers,
De Wet'll kill them chiselers,
one, two, three.
Marching from the Linen Hall
There's one for every cannonball,
And Vicky's going to send them all,
o'er the sea.
But first go up to Monto, Monto, Monto
March them up to Monto,
lan-ge-roo, To you!

When Carey told on Skin-the-goat,
O'Donnell caught him on the boat
He wished he'd never been afloat,
the dirty skite.
It wasn't very sensible
To tell on the Invincibles
They stand up for their principles,
day and night.
And you'll find them all in Monto, Monto, Monto
Standing up in Monto,
lan-ge-roo, To you!

Now when the Tsar of Russia
And the King of Prussia
Landed in the Phoenix
in a big balloon,
They asked the police band
To play "The Wearin' of the Green"
But the buggers from the depot
didn't know the tune.
So they both went up to Monto, Monto, Monto
Scarpered up to Monto,
lan-ge-roo, To you!

The Queen she came to call on us,
She wanted to see all of us
I'm glad she didn't fall on us,
she's eighteen stone.
"Mister Me Lord Mayor," says she,
"Is this all you've got to show me?"
"Why, no ma'am there's some more to see,
Póg mo thóin!"
And he took her up Monto, Monto, Monto
He set her up in Monto,
lan-ge-roo, For you!

(Text taken from Wikipedia, where info on names are given.)

The Ferryman

The little boat had gone from the breast of Anna Liffey
And the ferrymen were stranded on the quay
Ah the Dublin docks are dying and a way of life is gone
And sure Molly it was part of you and me.

Where the strawberry beds sweep down to the Liffey
We'll kiss away the worries from my brow
I loved you well today and I'll love you more tomorrow
If you ever loved me Molly love me now.

It was the only job I knew, it was hard but never lonely
The Liffey ferry made a man of me
Now it's gone without a whisper and forgotten even now
Sure it's over, Molly, over can't you see.

And now I'll tell me yarn and I'll spend me days a-talkin'
And I'll hear the whisper, "Charlie's on the dole"
But Molly we're still livin' and darlin' we're still young
And the Liffey never owned my heart and soul.

The Reason I Left Mullingar

I walked through this city a stranger,
In a land I can never call home,
And I cursed the sad notion that caused me,
In search of my fortune to roam.

I'm weary of working and drinking,
A week's wages left by the bar,
And Lord it's a shame to use a friends name,
To beg for the price of a jar.

I remember that bright April morning,
When I left home to travel a-far,
To work till your dead for a room and a bed,
It's not the reason I left Mullingar.

Oh this London's a city of heartbreak,
On Friday there's friends by the score,
But when the pay's finished on Monday,
A friend's not your friend anymore.

Oh a working day seems never ending,
From a shovel and pick there's no break,
But when your not working your spending,
That fortune you left home to make.

And for everyone here that finds fortune,
And comes home to tell of the tale,
Each morning the broadway is crowed,
With many's the thousand that failed.

So young men of Ireland take warning,
In London you never will find,
The gold at the end of the rainbow,
You might just have left it behind.

Take Me Back To Castlebar

(Patsy Farrell)

I'm waiting for John Murphy's van
To take me to the site.
I'm working seven days a week
From morning to dark night.
And when I step into the van
And gently close the door,
The first thing that they'll ask me is
What I did the night before!

Take me back to Castlebar
In the county of Mayo!
It's the only place in Ireland
I'm longing for to go!
They greet you with a friendly smile
And bid you time of day.
When I set my foot in old Mayo
I never more will stray!

My boss Jack the ganger man
He talks about the times
Himself and old John Murphy
Worked deep down in the mines.
He says he meets them often at
The Dorchester Hotel.
If you want to get promotion,
Get down and dig like hell.

Jack from Connemara,
When he gets in the hump,
Sure he takes about the money he made
While working on the lump.
Sure he blames old Maggie Thatcher
And her government as well
He says he's made his money now
And they can go to hell.

There's another chap from Pakistan,
No bigger than a Duck.
He sells his wares upon the site,
They fell of the back of a truck.
He says he is a Carpenter
And that might well be true.
But I've never seen him working,
He must be on the brew.

At The Duke Of York on Saturday night,
McGraley does remit,
He says he first came over here
In 1938
That was the year before the war
If me memory serves me clear,
For written on the factory wall,
Was "No Irish Wanted Here".

At Boolavogue

(Patrick Joseph McCall, 1898)

At Boolavogue as the sun was setting
O’er the bright May meadows of Shelmalier,
A rebel hand set the heather blazing
And brought the neighbours from far and near.
Then Father Murphy, from old Kilcormack,
Spurred up the rocks with a warning cry,
“Arm, Arm!” he cried, “for I’ve come to lead you,
For Ireland’s freedom we’ll fight or die.”

He led us on ’gainst the coming soldiers,
And the cowardly Yeomen we put to flight;
’Twas at the Harrow the boys of Wexford
Showed Bookey’s regiment how men could fight.
Look out for hirelings, King George of England,
Search every kingdom where breathes a slave.
For Father Murphy from the County Wexford
Sweeps o’er the land like a mighty wave.

We took Camolin and Enniscorthy,
And Wexford storming drove out our foes;
‘Twas at Sliabh Coillte our pikes were
reeking with crimson stream of the beaten Yeos.
At Tubberneering and Ballyellis
Full many a Hessian lay in his gore,
Ah, Father Murphy, had aid come over
The green flag floated from shore to shore!

At Vinegar Hill, o’er the pleasant Slaney,
Our heroes vainly stood back to back,
And the Yeos at Tullow took Father Murphy
And burned his body upon the rack.
God grant you glory, brave Father Murphy,
And open heaven to all your men;
The cause that called you may call to-morrow
In another fight for the Green again.

Galway Bay


If you ever go across the sea to Ireland,
then maybe at the closing of your day,
you can sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh,
and see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream,
The women in the meadow making hay,
just to sit beside the turf fire in a cabin,
and watch the barefoot gosoons as they play.

For the breezes blowing o'er the sea's from Ireland,
Are perfumed by the heather as they blow,
And the women in the uplands digging praties,
Speak a language that the strangers do not know.

Yet the strangers came and tried to teach us their ways,
And they scorned us just for being what we are,
But they might as well go chasin after moon beams,
Or light a penny candle from a star.

And if there's gonna be a life here after,
And faith somehow I'm sure there's gonna be,
I will ask my God to let me make my Heaven,
In that dear land across the Irish sea.

The Galway Shawl


At Oranmore in the county Galway
One pleasant evening in the months of May
I spied a damsel; she was young and handsome
Her beauty fairly took my breath away

She worn no jewels, nor costly diamonds
No paint nor powder, no none at all
But she worn a bonnet with ribbons on it
And 'round her shoulders was the Galway shawl

We kept on walking, she kept on talking
'Til her father's cottage came in to view
Said she, "Come in sir, and meet my father
And play, to please him, 'The Foggy Dew'"

She sat me down beside the hearthstone
I could see her father, he was six feet tall
And soon her mother had the kettle singing
All I could think of, was the Galway shawl

I played, 'The Black Bird', 'The Stack of Barley'
'Rodney's Glory' and 'The Foggy Dew'
She sang each note like an Irish linnet
And tears weld in her eyes of blue

'Twas early, early, all in the morning
I hit the road for old Donegal
Said she, "Goodbye sir", she cried and kissed me
But my heart remain with the Galway shawl

Dan O' Hara

(Delia Murphy (1902-71))

It's here I am today God gave and took away
And left without a home for Dan O'Hara
With these matches in my hand in the frost and snow I stand
But here I am today your broken hearted

In the year of sixty four we had acres by the score
The grandest land a man could pull a plough through
But the landlord came you know and he laid our home to low
And here I am today your broken-hearted

Cushla gra mo craoi (love of my heart)
won't you buy a box from me
And have the prayers of Dan from Connemara.
Sure I'll sell them cheap and low
buy a box before you go
from the broken-hearted farmer Dan O'Hara.

And for twenty years or more did misfortune cross our door
My poor old wife and I were sadly parted
We were scattered far and wide and our children starved and died
But here I am today your broken-hearted

Cushla gra mo craoi
won't you buy a box from me
and have the prayers of Dan from Connemara.
Sure I'll sell them cheap and low
buy a box before you go
from the broken-hearted farmer Dan O'Hara.

Tho' in frost and snow I stand beneath the shadow of God's hand
It lies warm from the brow of Dan O'Hara
And so soon with God above I will meet the ones I love
And find the live I lost in Connemara

Cushla gra mo craoi
won't you buy a box from me
and have the prayers of Dan from Connemara.
Sure I'll sell them cheap and low
buy a box before you go
from the broken-hearted farmer Dan O'Hara.

On the Banks of my own Lovely Lee

How oft do my thoughts in their fancy take flight
To the home of my childhood away,
To the days when each patriot's vision seem'd bright
Ere I dreamed that those joys should decay.

When my heart was as light as the wild winds that blow
Down the Mardyke through each elm tree,
Where we sported and play'd 'neath each green leafy shade
On the banks of my own lovely Lee,
Where we sported and play'd 'neath each green leafy shade
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.

And then in the springtime of laughter and song
Can I ever forget the sweet hours?
With the friends of my youth as we rambled along
'Mongst the green mossy banks and wild flowers.

And then, when the evening sun's sinking to rest
Shed its golden light over the sea
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee,
The maid with her lover the wild daisies pressed
On the banks of my own lovely Lee

'Tis a beautiful land this dear isle of song
Its gems shed their light to the world
And her faithful sons bore thro' ages of wrong,
The standard St. Patrick unfurled.

Oh! would I were there with the friends I love best
And my fond bosom's partner with me
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee,
We'd roam thy banks over, and when weary we'd rest
By thy waters, my own lovely Lee.

Oh what joys should be mine ere this life should decline
To seek shells on thy sea-gilded shore.
While the steel-feathered eagle, oft splashing the brine
Brings longing for freedom once more.

Oh all that on earth I wish for or crave
Is that my last crimson drop be for thee,
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee,
To moisten the grass of my forefathers' grave
On the banks of my own lovely Lee.