Luke Kelly

I'll tell my ma when I get home,
The boys won't leave the girls alone
They pull my hair and stole my comb
But that's all right till I go home

She is handsome, she is pretty,
She is the Belle of Belfast city
She is a courtin' one, two, three,
Please won't you tell me who is she

Albert Mooney says he loves her,
All the boys are fightin' for her
Knock at the door and ring at the bell,
Saying oh my true love, are you well

Out she comes as white as snow,
Rrings on her fingers, bells on her toes
Ould Johnny Morrissey says she'll die
If she doesn't get the fella with the roving eye

Let the wind and the rain and the hail blow high
And the snow come travellin' through the sky
She's as sweet as apple pie,
She'll get her own lad by and by

When she gets a lad of her own
She won't tell her ma when she gets home
Let them all come as they will
For it's Albert Mooney she loves still

Oh, I am a merry ploughboy and I plough the fields all day
Till a sudden thought came to my head, that I should roam away
For I'm sick and tired of slavery since the day that I was born
And I'm off to join the IRA and I'm off tomorrow morn

And we're all 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 rattle of a Thompson gun

I'll leave aside me pick and spade, I'll leave aside me plough
I'll leave aside me horse and yoke, I no longer need them now
I'll leave aside me Mary, she's the girl that I adore
And I wonder if she'll think of me when she'll hear the rifles roar

And we're all 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 rattle of a Thompson gun

And when the war is over and dear old Ireland is free
I'll take her to the church to wed and a rebel's wife she'll be
Well, some men fight for silver and some men fight for gold
But the IRA are fighting for the land that the Freestaters stole

And we're all 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 rattle of a Thompson gun

Ta Peig agom, ta Cait agom, ach Peig an bean is fearr
'Cbe faer Gheabhfas i nach air a bhfeas anttadh

O ghuairm i 's guairim i go deo
Si gra mo chroi mo bhurnin i si Peigin Leitirmor

Ta iscaraigh na h'iarrthartha in greim an Ghotan mhoie
Agus scriothim aisteach is gheobhfam leath-bhod sheoil

O ghuairm i 's guairim i go deo
Si gra mo chroi mo bhurnin i si Peigin Leitirmor

Ta iascaraigh na Gaillimhe ag theacht anall le choir
Is solas geallaigh gilte bi go ligadis a shaoil

O ghuairm i 's guairim i go deo
Si gra mo chroi mo bhurnin i si Peigin Leitirmor

Eirigh suas a Pheggy agus sheas ar bharr an ard
Choirigh do chuid buillan agus feach an bhfuil siad ann

O ghuairm i 's guairim i go deo
Si gra mo chroi mo bhurnin i si Peigin Leitirmor

O ghuairm i 's guairim i go deo
Si gra mo chroi mo bhurnin i si Peigin Leitirmor

As down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I
There Armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by

No fife did hum nor battle drum
Did sound it's dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell
Rang out through the foggy dew

Right proudly high over Dublin Town
They hung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Sulva or Sud El Bar

And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through
While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns
Sailed in through the foggy dew

'Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go
That small nations might be free
But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves
Or the shore of the Great North Sea

Oh, had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brugha
Their names we will keep where the fenians sleep
'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew

But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter tide
In the springing of the year

And the world did gaze, in deep amaze
At those fearless men, but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew

Oh, 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'd kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled, O glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew

Fare thee well, my lovely Dinah, a thousand times adieu.
We're goin' away from the Holy Ground and the girls we all love true.
We will sail the salt seas over and we'll return for shore,
To see again the girls we love and the Holy Ground once more.
Fine girl you are!
You're the girl I do adore,
And still I live in hopes to see the Holy Ground once more.
Fine girl you are!

And now the storm is raging and we are far from shore;
And the good old ship is tossin' about and the rigging is all tore.
And the secrets of my mind, my love, you're the girl I do adore,
And still I live in hopes to see the Holy Ground once more.
Fine girl you are!
You're the girl I do adore,
And still I live in hopes to see the Holy Ground once more.
Fine girl you are!

And now the storm is over and we are safe and well
We will go into a public house and we'll sit and drink like hell!
We will drink strong ale and porter and we'll make the rafters roar,
And when our money is all spent, we'll go to sea once more.
Fine girl you are!
You're the girl I do adore,
And still I live in hopes to see the Holy Ground once more.
Fine girl you are!

In the County Tyrone, near the town of Dungannon,
Where many the ructions 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 none can compare with the Old Orange Flute.

Bob, the deceiver, he took us all in;
He married a Papist named Bridget McGinn.
Turned Papist himself and forsook the old cause
That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.
Now, boys of the townland made some noise upon it,
And Bob had to fly to the province of Connaught.
He fled with his wife and his fixings to boot,
And along with the latter his Old Orange Flute.

At the chapel on Sunday to atone for past deeds,
He'd say Pater and Aves and counted his brown beads.
'Til after some time, at the priest's own desire
He went with that old flute to play in the choir.
He went with that old flute for to play for 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 stared 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 tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down."
Now, for all he could whistle and finger and blow,
To play Papish music he found it no go.
"Kick the Pope" and "The 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 it's head,
So they bought Bob a new one to play in it's stead.
'Twas fastened and burned at the stake as a heretic.
As the flames soared around it, they heard a strange noise;
'Twas the old flute still whistling "The Protestant Boys."
"Toora lu, toora lay,

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