1. The Highwayman Outwitted (Roud 2637) Traditional There once was a young man, his name it was John; Hired with a farmer in the County Tyrone. On the fair day of Clady the farmer took unwell; So he sent John to the market with a cow for to sell, Raddley rang doo a daddy doo a da doo a dan. John drove the cow away out of the barn, And off to the fair he instantly ran, He didn't go so far till he met two dealing men, Who soon bought the cow and they paid him there and then. Then into an alehouse John went for a glass, His feet for to rest and an hour for to pass, “Where will I put the money?” to the landlady he did say, “Or where will I hide it, Oh tell me I pray.” “In the lining of your coat I will sew it,” said she, “For fear on the road that it's robbed you might be.” The robber in the room sat there sipping at his wine, And he says to himself, “All that money will be mine.” When John started out for his home that afternoon, The robber, he followed him out of the room, He soon overtook him and this to him did say, “Won't you jump up behind me, for I'm going your way.” They hadn't gone so far when the robber turned about, A bright, gleaming pistol he quickly pulled out, “Deliver up your money without either grief or strife, Or at this very moment I will take your sacred life.” Then John was afraid if he tried to refuse, And feared for his life, there was no time to lose, From the lining of his coat he tore the money out, And among the tall grasses he scattered it all about. The highwayman he quickly jumped down from his horse, But little he thought it was all to his loss, While he gathered up the money that he found among the grass, John hopped into the saddle and rode off with his horse. The farmer's wee daughter saw John coming home, And into her father she quickly ran, “Arra, John,” said the farmer, “Tell my why did you swap, Or how did me cow turn into a horse?” “Well, indeed, then,” said John, “It's the truth I will unfold, I was stopped on the road by a wee highman bold, While he gathered up your money that I threw among the grass, Just to make ye amendment, I've brought home his horse.” When the saddle bag was opened it was found for to hold, Five hundred bright guineas in silver and gold, A bright pair of pistols, and the farmer he did vow, Saying, “John, m' young fellow, you're the boy can sell a cow!”

2. Paddy's Panacea (Stick to the Craythur) (Roud 3079) Traditional Let your quacks and newspapers be cutting their capers, 'Bout curing the vapors, the scratch, or the gout; With their powders and potions, their salves and lotions, Ochón, in their notions they're mighty put out. Would you know the true physic to bother pathetic, To pitch to the devil cramp, colic, and spleen? You will find it, I think, if you take a big drink with your mouth to the brink of a glass of poitín. Chorus: So stick to the craythur, the best thing in nature, For sinking your sorrows and raising your joys Oh, whack, botheration, no dose in the nation, Can give consolation like whiskey, me boys When a babe in the cradle, my nurse with a ladle, Was filling my mouth with a notion of pap, When a drop from her bottle slipped into my throttle, I capered and waggled right out of her lap. On the floor I lay sprawling and kicking and bawling, 'Til mother and father was both to the fore. All sobbing and sighing, conceived I was dying, But soon found I only was screeching for more. So stick to the craythur.... Oh, Lord, how they'd chuckle if babes in their truckle, They only could suckle on whiskey, me boys. Through my youthful ingression, those times of depression, That childhood impression still clung to me mind, For at school or at college, the bolus of knowledge, I never could gulp, 'till with whiskey combined. And as older I'm growing, time's ever bestowing On Erin's potation a flavor so fine. And how e'er they may lecture 'bout Jove and his nectar, Itself is the only true liquor divine. So stick to the craythur.... Oh, Lord, it's delighting for courting or fighting, There's naught so exciting as whiskey, me boys. Let your philosophers dabble in science and babble 'Bout oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen's fame. But their gin, to my thinking is not worth the drinking, Their labor's all lost and their learning's a dream. They may prate by the score of their elements four, That all things, earth, air, fire, and water must be. For their rules I don't care, for in Ireland, I swear By St. Pat there's a fifth, and that's whiskey, mo chroí. So stick to the craythur.... Och, whack! Art and science, meself bids defiance, And yield in appliance to whiskey, me boys! Come guess me this riddle, what beats pipes and fiddle? What's stronger than mustard and milder than cream? What best whets your whistle, what's purer than crystal Sweeter than honey and stronger than steam? What will make the dumb talk, what will make the lame walk? What's the elixir of life, the philosopher's stone? Sure, what helped Mr. Brunel to dig the Thames Tunnel, Sure, wasn't it poitín from old Inishowen? So stick to the craythur.... Oh Lord, I'd not wonder if lightening and thunder Were made from the plunder of whiskey, me boys.

3. Flower of Magherally (Roud 3009) Traditional One pleasant summer's morning when all the flowers were springing-oh, Nature was adorning and the wee birds sweetly singing-oh. I met my love near Banbridge town, my charming, blue-eyed Sally-oh, She's the queen of the County Down, my flower of Magherally-oh. With admiration I did gaze upon this fair-haired maiden-oh. Adam was not half so plaised when he met Eve in Eden-oh. Her skin was like the lily white that grows in yonder valley-oh. She's my queen and my heart's delight, my flower of Magherally-oh. Her hair in golden ringlets hung, her boots of Spanish leather-oh, Her bonnet with blue ribbons strung, her scarlet cap and feather-oh. Like Venus bright she did appear, my charming, blue-eyed Sally-oh; She's the girl I love so dear, my flower of Magherally-oh. I hope the day will surely come when we'll join hands together-oh. It's then I'll bring my true-love home, in spite of wind and weather-oh. And let them all say what they will, and let them reel and rally-oh, For I shall wed the one I love, my flower of Magherally-oh.

4. Miss Mouse's Ball Traditional The field mouse gave a birthday ball, She asked her neighbors, one and all. She held it in a splendid hole, 'Twas kindly lent by Mr. Mole. There was no end to nuts and roots, Berries red and candied fruits. Juicy leaves were on to sup, The dew drops in an acorn cup. Said Mr. Hare unto his wife, "I never yet in all my life, Received a letter small and pink. What is it, now, oh do you think?" Said Mrs. Hare, "It comes to call Us both unto Miss Mouse's ball. Lift up your tails and your coat so brown, And I will wear my evening gown." Miss Frog was splashing in the pond, Of which she was extremely fond, And when she heard the joyful news, She hopped right up and changed her shoes. They never had such a time before, As they danced all night on that sandy floor. No one gave a growl or a grouse, And they thanked the mole for the used of his house!

5. Amhrán na Leabhar (Song of the Books) Traditional Go Cuan Bhéil Inse casadh mé Coís Góilín aoibhinn Dairbhre Mar a seoltar flít na farraige Thar sáile i gcéin. I bPort Mag' Aoidh do stadas seal, Faoi [Fe] thuairim intinn maitheasa D'fhonn bheith sealad eatarthu Mar mháistir léinn. Is gearr gur chuala an t-eachtara Ag cách mo léan! Gur i mBórd Eoghain Fhinn do chailleadh theas An t-árthach tréan. Do phreab mo chroí le hatuirse I dtaobh loinge an tigheasaigh chalma Go mb'fhearrde an tír í sheasamh seal Dá ráibh an tséin. Mo chiach, mo chumha is m'atuirse! Mé im iarsma dhubh ag ainnise Is mé síoraí a'déanamh mairbhna, Ar mo chás bhocht féin! Mo chuid éadaigh chúdaigh scaipithe, Do bhí déanta, cumtha, ceapaithe, Is do thriaill thar thriúchaibh Banban Mar bhláth fém dhéin. Iad bheith imithe sa bhfarraige Ar bharr an scéil, Is a thuilleadh acu sa lasair Is mé go támhach trém néal; Ba thrua le cách ar maidin mé Go buartha, cásmhar, ceasnuithe, Is an fuacht do chráigh im bhallaibh mé Gan snáth ón spéir! By Valentia harbour I happened once Near sweet Goleen Dairbhre To be the master in Portmagee Where ships set sail for the ocean deep. Soon all had the sorrowful story then Of the sturdy craft, lost at Owen Finn, Sad was my heart for the ship that failed; Better this land had it survived the gale. (A condensed, poetic translation, first verse, by Tomás Ó Canainn) O, the grief that has left me a former shade of myself; That horrible day I'm forever reliving! The delicate shell of my being stripped from me, Like a blossom being blown from the shores of Ireland. And those petals (pages) blown adrift on the ocean to their end; And many more in flames, for in shock I could not save them. Everyone did pity me that morning as I drifted in thought, And the worry chilled my bones to numbness without supplication even from heaven! (A poetic translation of the second verse by Brian Ó hAirt)

6. Roll me from the Wall (Roud 8302) Traditional When I was young some years ago, from trouble I was free. The boys they used to court me, how dearly they loved me. They often said how lucky I'd be, when winter storms would fall, If I could have for mine a youth so fine to roll me from the wall. Now an old man came a-courting and he was four score or more. He had long gray hair and a curly beard but he had gold in store. There wasn't a trace on his face of a youthful sign at all. And I was told that he was too old to roll me from the wall. But when my parents heard the news, sure they got very bold. They said I'd have to marry him if he was twice as old. So just to satisfy my parents, I went without a bawl, But sadly he neglected for to roll me from the wall. Now this old man was feeble and his bones were cold as clay, And like a frozen ice-berg he there beside me lay. I often laid in bed and prayed that the Lord would on him call, So I could have for mine a youth so fine to roll me from the wall. After six long months of married life, sure this old man took sick and died. His money and land he left to me as I stood by his side. With money and land at my command, that I might enjoy them all, I could have for mine my youth so fine to roll me from the wall. When the funeral was over and all was said and done, I got wed to a nice young man I thought the sun shone on. But very soon, sure he'd gone through my money, land, and all; And now I suffer severely for my rolling from the wall.

7. The Mullingar Recruit Traditional It was on one sultry summer's day, while tired of working at the hay, I lay and watched the regiment marching by to foreign wars. And I don't know how it came about, I must have slept, without a doubt, I dreamt I took the shilling that day in Mullingar. Oh, Sergeant, a-gramachree, won't you swap back again with me, For my old coat and overcoat were warmer by far. And besides my heart would surely break for the friends and neighbors I forsake, And wearing that Highland petticoat, going in to Mullingar. But the sergeant he spoke sharp at me, "You might as well contented be, You went and took the shilling down in Marion Eagan's bar. And as for those you leave behind, you might as well make up your mind-- You went and put your foot in it, this day in Mullingar." It was then I wept with grief and pain, but all my protests were in vain; We marched to Monasterevin with the general in the car. And when we came to Wexford Town, straight to the transport we went down, And sailed away to India, farewell to Mullingar. Though the heat was heavy overhead, we fought till nearly all were dead, From Setlej Lake to Khyber and from there to Kandahar. And those Indians were a savage lot, they gave it to us hard and hot, And I lost both legs to cannon-shot, I sighed for Mullingar. As on the bloody ground I lay, in deep despair, I could not pray, I cursed the day I 'listed and my joy in life did mar. When someone near me gave a shout, I woke right up and looked about. Thank God, I was only dreaming, I was back in Mullingar. I looked around me with delight, I felt my two fine legs, all right. I kissed the sod I lay upon and I thanked my lucky stars. And I swore no soldiering I'd try, unless for Ireland's cause to die, King George may stuff his shilling up, I'm content in Mullingar!

8. Cath Chéim an Fhia (The Battle of Keimaneigh) By Máire Bhuí Ní Laoire, 1822. Traditional Cois abhann Ghleanna an Chéama in Uibh Laoire 'sea bhím-se, Mar a dtéann an fia san oíche chun síor-chodladh sóghail, Ag machnamh seal liom féinig, ag déanamh mo smaointe Ag éisteacht i gcoiltibhle binn-ghuth na n-eon, Nuair a chuala 'n cath ag teacht aniar, 'gus glór na n-each ag teacht le sians, Le fuaim an airm do chrith an sliabh, 's nár mheinn liom a nglór; Thánadar go námhadmhar mar thiocfadh garda do chonaibh nimhe, 'Gus chuha mo chrói na sáirfhir d'fhágadar gan treoir. Nior fhan fear, bean, ná páiste i mbun áitreabh ná dtíortha, Na gártha goil do bhí 'cu, 's na mílte ologón; Ag féachaint ar an ngárda go láidir 'na dtímpeall, Ag lámhah 'gus ag líonadh, 's a' scaoileadh 'na dtreo; An liú gur leath a bhfad i gcian, 'sé dúirt gach flaith 'nar mhaith leis triall, "Gluaisídh go mear tá 'n cath dá riar, 'gus téimís 'na chomhair." Thánadar na sáirfhir, gcuím áthas ar Chlanna Gael, Thiomáineadar no páinigh le fánaidh ar seol. Níorbh fhada dhúinn go dtáinig lámh láidir 'n ár dtimpal Gur sgaipeadar ár ndaoine 's gach maoilinn faoi 'n gceó, Bhí 'n Barrach 'na bhunbail' 'cu, Barnett agus Beecher, Hedges agus Faoitigh 's na mílte eile leo. (A) Rí na bhfeart go leagaidh iad, gan chlú gan mheas gan rath gan séan, Go teintibh meara 'measg na bpian, gan faoisiomh go deo! Céad moladh mor le hÍosa nar dhíolamair as an dtóir Ach bheith ag déanamh grinn de 's d'á insint ar sógh. English translation: By the river bank in Keimaneigh, in Iveleary I do be, Where the deer comes nightly for its restful repose, Thinking for a while, pondering some memories, Listening in the woodlands to the birds' melodious tones. From the west came the sound of battle, of horses' hooves, or armour's rattle, Which quaked the hills in displeasing fashion, loathsome to report. So they came, viciously like a pack of venomous hounds. I pity those valiant men for whom no leader can be found. Not a man, woman, or child was left in their dwelling or house Without grief-cries and thousands of wailings, As they watched the guard vigorously surrounding them, Shooting and loading and firing in their direction. The cry that went out far and wide-- It was what every prince who wished to be on the move said: "Move fast, the battle is being fought and let us go to meet it." The heroes joined the Clanna Gael at a mountain recess, And they drove the fat rabble away down the slope. Short was the time until a strong hand surrounded us And led out our people into the fog of early morning. Barry, the bum-bailiff [was there], Barnet and Beecher, Hedges and White and thousands of others besides. Oh, King of Great Deeds, may they be cast down into fires of heat, In the midst of pain, without remission for all eternity, Without reputation, without honor, without success, without prosperity. A hundred great praises to Jesus that we didn't pay the penalty for the rout, But lived to make a joke of it, and tell the story at our ease!

9. Paddy, the Cockney, and the Ass (Roud 3078) Traditional Pat Molloy was an Irish boy and he lived in County Clare. He said he'd go to London to see what sights were there. He'd often heard that London was a very pretty place, "And, bedamn," says Pat, "I'll go and see if that be the case." With me fol de diddle die doh, rye fol de day. Now when Paddy went to London he was taken by surprise; The sights of that grand city fairly dazzled Paddy's eyes. One day he was going down the street, meditating to himself, He met with a ragged Cockney and a donkey selling delft. With me fol.... Now this damned old ragged Cockney would not let poor Paddy past. He said, "Speak to your brother," and he pointed to the ass. "I thought, m' man," says Paddy, "that I had no brother here." But turning 'round he whispered something in the donkey's ear. Now when Pat was speaking to the ass, now boys, what did he do? He dropped a pebble in his ear, he did, bedamn, 'tis true. That ass ran mad, upset the cart, broke all the earthenware; And this damned old Cockney, he ran crazy, clean and clear. Well, he called upon the Peelers for to take poor Pat in charge, Saying, "Seize this Irish beggerman, he should not be at large." "Begone, you English spalpeen," now, says Paddy with a smile. "You took me for an ass because I came from Erin's Isle." Well, to stand before the magistrate he had to appear next day, And asked what all the crimes he'd done and what he had to say. "Well, to tell the truth," says Paddy, "I'm accused of more than I did. He said, 'Speak to your brother,' and I did as I was bid." "That's nonsense," cried the magistrate, "you know that ass ran mad." "Well, I do, indeed," says Paddy, "and I'm sorry, too, bedad." "Be careful," cried the magistrate, "I want no nonsense here; But come and tell me every word you whispered in his ear." "Oh, that I will," says Paddy, "your request I'll not refuse. You've often heard that donkeys are very fond of news. I thought I'd say a word or two, the ass's heart to cheer. And now I'll tell you every word I whispered in his ear." "'They say that now in Ireland we have our wrongs redressed, That all noble-hearted Irishmen no longer are oppressed. We've got rid of all the landlords, Ireland to ourselves we have.' And when this donkey heard the news, by heavens, he went mad!" Well, the magistrate from laughing he had to grip his head, When he looked at poor old Paddy and thought of what he'd said. And turning 'round to Paddy, saying, "A clever boy you are. And for your clever answer, I dismiss you from the bar." With me fol de diddle die doh, rye fol de day.

10. The Holland Handkerchief (Roud 246) Traditional A wealthy squire lived in our town. He was a man of high renown. He had but one daughter, and a beauty bright, And the name he called her was My Heart's Delight. Now many's the young man to court her came, But none of them could her favor gain, Until there came one of low degree, And above them all, well, she fancied he. But when her father, he came to know, That his lovely daughter loved this young man so, It was fifty miles he sent her away, All to deprive her of her wedding day. One night as she was sleeping in her bed room, Her love appeared from out the gloom. He took her hand and to her did say, "My love, arise, and come away." So with this young man she got on behind, And they rode swifter than any wind. They rode on for an hour or more, Till he said, "My darling, my head feels sore." So a Holland Handkerchief she then drew out, And with it wrapped his poor head about. She kissed his lips and to him did say, "My love, you're colder than any clay." Well, they rode till they came to her fathers gate. "Get down, get down, for the hour is late. Oh, get down my love and go to bed, And this noble horse will be groomed and fed." So she walked till she came to her father's hall. "Who's there, who's there," her own father did call. "Oh, 'tis I, dear Father, you sent for me, By such a messenger," naming he. "Oh, no, dear daughter, that cannot be. For your words are false and you lie to me. For in yonder valley your love was slain, And on yon green hillside his body lies." So the truth it dawned on this maiden brave, And with her friends she exposed the grave, To find her love, though nine months dead, With a Holland Handkerchief around his head.

11. Bruach na Carraige Báine (Banks of Carraige Báine) Traditional Nuair a éiríos fein ar maidin go moch I bhfad amach sa bhfómhar, Cé a chífinn romham ach stór mo chroí Agus d'fhéach sí féin go fónta. Mar do bhí sí siúd deas dearg is donn Is a leacainn mar na rósaí Nuair a dh'fháisceas í go dlúth lem chroí 'Sé dúirt sí: “Cá mbíonn tú ido chónaí?” As I roved out for to view the plains One pleasant morning early, Who should I spy, but a pretty fair maid, And she dressed up so nately. Her cherry cheeks and ruby lips, Her eyes would dazzle the daisies. When I took that fair maid by the hand She said: “Young man, go aisy.” Mar is treabhdóir mise go fónta ar mo cheird, Mar is maith atá 'fhios ag am' chomharsain, Is mó páirc riamh do threabhas-sa féin Gan mé bheith tinn ná leonta. Do bhainfinn féar in íochtar cnoic, Do dhéanfainn cruach nó stáicín, Do rincfinn ríl leat, a stór mo chroí, Ar bhruach na Carraige Báine. For I am a ploughboy the seed for to sow, And that is well-known to my neighbors, It is many the field that I have ploughed And that without much labor. I'd plough and sow, both reap and mow, And gather it into your garden. I'd sweep the floor and dance with you On the banks of Carraige Báine. Do leathfainn fallaing duitse, a fhir óig, Mura mbeadh ann ach leithead cianóige Dá mbeadh 'fhios agam go mbeifeá liom Gan dabht tú féin do b'fhearr liom. Ó, gléasaigh suas, a óigfhir lean Agus gluais liom fhéin thar sáile, Agus treabhfaimid no tonnta trean' Ó bruach na Carraige Báine. I would spread my mantle for you young man, If 'twas only the breadth of a farthing, If I thought your mind was as good as your word, It is you of course I'd rather. So awake, arise, my laboring boy And come away with me in the morning, And we will plough the briny waves From the banks of Carraige Báine.

12. Joseph Baker (by Pete Coe, ©Backshift Music) You sporting men of Chester, I'll have you all to hear Of a man named Joseph Baker, who lived near Delamere. He ran faster than the old red fox and farther than the hound, And of all the men who challenged him, no equal could be found. He rose up every morning before the day was clear, And through the shady forest he pursued the royal deer. He chased the wind across the heath, the mist right o'er the hill, He raced the dust along the road and the stream down to the mill. Now sportsmen came from near and far to challenge Baker's speed, And in every case and every race they swore to do the deed. A baker came from Frodsham, a soldier came from Hale, And a sailor came from Birkenhead and a butcher came from Sale. But he never was beaten in any race until that fateful day, When death at last defeated him and took his breath away. But if you go out on a Winter's night, you can see him running still, As his ghost runs down from Kensall Church, right up to Helsby Hill.

13. Bonnie Portmore (Roud 3475) Traditional Oh, Bonnie Portmore, you shine where you stand, And the more I think on you the more I think long: If I had you now as I had once before, All the lords in old England could not purchase Portmore. Oh, Bonnie Portmore, I am sorry to see Such a woeful destruction of your ornament tree. For it stood on your shore for many's the long day, Till the long boats from Antrim came to float it away. All the birds in the forest, they bitterly weep, Saying, "Where shall we forage and where shall we sleep? For the oak and the ash, they are all cutten down, And the walls of Bonnie Portmore are all down to the ground." Squire Dobbs, he was ingenious; he framed a windmill For to drain the lough dry, but the lough is there still; When the wind did blow the mill it went right, But what it drew off all the long day, crept back under at night. Oh, Bonnie Portmore, you are unfairly done, Where once your proud buildings their equal was none; With your ivory tables, and windows of ash, Where great lords they used to dine, the farmers now thresh. Now Bonnie Portmore, fare you well, oh, fare you well, Of your far-famed beauty I ever shall tell; When my last day shall come, I will lie by your shore, And sweet will my dreams be, by you Bonnie Portmore.

14. The Creggan White Hare (Roud 9633) Traditional In the lowlands of Creggan there lived a white hare, She was swift as a swallow that flies through the air. You may search the world over but there's none can compare To the pride of low Creggan, the Bonnie White Hare. Now one bright Sunday morning, as you may suppose, When the gold autumn sun o'er the green fields arose, Barney Conway came 'round, saying, "This I declare: I'll soon put an end to the Bonnie White Hare. So he searched through the lowlands, he searched through the glen, He searched the green rushes where the hare had her den, Till at last, coming home, on a bog bank so bare, From behind a big thistle out jumped the white hare. And bang when his gun and his dog he set to, As o'er the green fields the white hare she flew. But his dog, he returned, which made poor Barney sigh, For he knew that the white hare had bid him good-bye. Now some jolly young sportsmen came down from Pomeroy, From Dungannon and Cookstown and likewise the Moy, With their pedigree hounds that they brought from afar, And they landed in Creggan in their big motor car. 'Twas down through the lowlands these sportsmen, they went; To kill the white hare, sure it was their intent. Till at last Barney Conway, when he came to her lair, Shouted out to the sportsmen, "Here lies your white hare!" So they called their greyhounds in from off the green lea, And Barney and the sportsmen, they jumped high with glee, For there on the bog bank, as they all gathered around, Seven men and nine dogs did the white hare surround. And oh, how the white hare did tremble with fear, As she stood by her den and she lifted one ear, But she riz on her toes and with one gallant spring, Lepping over the greyhounds, she broke through the ring! Oh, and then was the chase--what a glorious view! As o'er the green fields, sure, the white hare she flew. But their pedigree hounds, well they didn't go far, They came back and went home in their big motor car. And now to conclude and to finish my song, I am hoping that I have not kept you too long; But if ever you're up at the Creggan Boar Fair, Drink a jolly good health to the Creggan White Hare!

15. My Lovely Mountain Home or The Emigrant (Roud 2888) Traditional To all intended immigrants I penned this simple lay, From one who lies in hospital three thousand miles away, To warn them all the dangers, that they might weep and see The fate of a young Irishman in that great land of the free. I left my lovely mountain home, near to Slieve Gallion Braes, Light-hearted as a moor cock that on the heather plays. No hare on Carndaisey was swifter than I, When I left my lovely mountain home and bid my lass good-bye. On board of an ocean liner where the Foyle's white waters play, I stood an Irish immigrant, bound for Amerikay. And as I took my last fond look, with a heart both sad and sore, I cursed the laws that drove me from my lovely shamrock shore. The evening that I landed I scaled two hundred pounds. I feared not the great O'Sullivan who wore the laurel crown. Fresh from my lovely mountain home with muscles strong as steel, No champion on Columbia's shores, before him would I yield. But for six long months in search of work, sure I rambled far and near, Till at length I joined the Navy as an Irish volunteer. No wonder on my wasted cheeks I wear the blush of shame, To think I backed the stars and stripes against the sons of Spain. I stood on board of a battleship on that ill-fated day When the Spanish fleet was captured close to Santiago Bay. A bombshell fired that evening from out of Fort San Juan Left many's the widow mourning and me a wounded man. Disabled now for all my life, I never more will stray On the hills of Carndaisey or the green shores of Lough Neagh. I will never see my parents more, who grieved my loss full sore, Or kiss my darling colleen in the town of Moneymore. In dreams I oft-times wander back along those mountain streams, Where the hare at dawn is sporting on Derry's lovely plains. I think I hear the moor cock in his heathery tummock crow, Tucked up in sweet Slieve Gallion, in his fleecy bed of snow. But why should I go rambling for those fine old days gone by, When in a New York cemet'ry my wasted bones will lie. Like thousands of my countrymen, I'll fill a nameless grave, Far away from sweet Slieve Gallion, where the wild heather waves.