PETER'S SONG
(Tommy Sands)
Chorus:
There was Peter sitting in the corner fiddle in his hand
Playing away like you never did hear and you'll never hear again
Charlie on banjo, Shorty on the bodhràn everything was grand
Come on Mark and let me in I want to join the band
Then Maeve did come and she let me in and I made my way along
Rafters rang with reels and jigs and someone sang a song
There were flying bows and bodhràns sticks you hadn't room to turn
But there was always a chair and a couple drinks
For the lad who came to learn
Chorus
But then the time said "Gentlemen please," and the gentlemen did go
Some of us might stay a while and sing songs very low
Then Peter he'd play one last song and put away the bow
But his fiddle is still playing no matter where you go
Chorus
It was in the springtime '74 that Peter he did die
And Fergie played the death march it was great Tallaght's town
And as we stood there silently as if from out the grave
Johnny's chickens could be heard and I could see it all again
Chorus
The day that Peter passed away we always will regret
But the things he said and the tunes he played we never will forget
Now the heavenly choir has dropped their lyres
And the angels tugged their harps
The rattle of the penny on the golden gate and this is his remark
Final Chorus:
There was Peter sitting in the corner fiddle in his hand
Playing away like you never did hear and you'll never hear again
St. Paul on banjo, Moses on the bodhràn everything was grand
Oh mighty Lord please let me in I want to join the band
PHIL THE FLUTTER'S BALL
(Percy French)
Have you heard of Phil the Flutter, of the town of Ballymuck?
The times were going hard with him, in fact the man was broke.
So he just sent out a notice to his neighbours, one an all
As to how he'd like their company that evening at a ball.
And when writin' out he was careful to suggest to them,
That if they found a hat of his convenient to the dure,
The more they put in, whenever he requested them
The better would the music be for battherin' the flute.
With the toot of the flute, And the twiddle of the fiddle, O;
Hopping in the middle, like a herrin' on the griddle, O.
Up! down, hands aroun', Crossing to the wall.
Oh! Hadn't we the gaiety at Phil the Flutter's Ball.
There was Mister Denis Dogherty, who kep' the runnin' dog;
There was little crooked Paddy, from the Tiraloughett bog;
There was boys from every Barony, and girls from every "art''
And the beautiful Miss Brady's, in a private ass an' cart,
And along with them came bouncing Mrs. Cafferty,
Little Micky Mulligan was also to the fore,
Rose, Suzanne, and Margaret O'Rafferty,
The flower of Ardmagullion, and the pride of Pethravore.
First, little Micky Mulligan got up to show them how,
And then the Widda' Cafferty steps out and makes her bow,
I could dance you off your legs, sez she, as sure as you are born,
If ye'll only make the piper play, "The hare was in the corn.''
So Phil plays up to the best of his ability,
The lady and the gentleman begin to do their share;
Faith, then Mick it's you that has agility,
Begorra Mrs. Cafferty, yer leppin' like a hare!
Then Phil the Flutter tipped a wink to little Crooked Pat,
"I think it's nearly time,'' sez he, "for passin' round the hat.''
So Paddy pass'd the caubeen round, and looking mighty cute.
Sez, "Ye've got to pay the piper when he toothers on the flute.''
Then all joined in wid the greatest joviality,
Covering the buckle, and the shuffle, and the cut;
Jigs were danced, of the very finest quality,
But the Widda' bet the company at "handling the fleut.''
PIED PIPER
Moran/Carton
Well it seems when he came over things were fairly looking up
Played full forward for Mountbellew when they won the county cup
Young Barrett's gone to Boston so he has to play in goal
The Pied Piper's come to Ireland and he's living on the dole
You can stroll through Cong and Ballinrobe,
You can walk the streets of Tuam
Thumb out as far as Headford on returning pass through Shrule
You won't see many young ones no matter where you roam
The Pied Piper's come to Ireland and he's living on the dole
Chorus:
The Pied Piper's come to Ireland and he's living on the dole
Played in Spiddal with the Waterboys now he loves rock 'n roll
Now there's just a pile of rubble where the workers used to go
Just a stones throw from the banks through which
The ould Clare river flows
When the people hear his haunting tune they pack
And leave their homes
For fear of revolution the pied piper gets the dole
Chorus:
The Pied Piper's come to Ireland and he's living on the dole
Played in Spiddal with the Waterboys now he loves rock 'n roll
I hear they're raising money abroad in New York town
It's not for guns or bombs this time but to turn the tables round
One last job for the piper and they'll pay one great amount
To drive them all into the sea that gang in Leinster House
Chorus:
The Pied Piper's come to Ireland and he's living on the dole
Played in Spiddal with the Waterboys now he loves rock 'n roll
PILLS
(Leon Rosselson)
It was on a Monday morning, I was tired, my head was turning,
And I couldn't face the thought of going back to work and so,
I paid a visit to my doctor and he gave me the once over,
Said ’don't worry, we'll soon have you on the go'
Chorus:
You need pills, pills, pills and pills, pills to take the pain away,
Just swallow two three times a day; you'll be as good as new,
And we've got pills to make you happy, pills to pep you up and calm you down,
It's magic what a pill can do
So I took the dose as ordered and my energy was restored,
But I was twitching, I was itching, couldn't keep my body still,
So I twitched right back to see the quack, “oh yes”, he said, “we'll soon cure that,
I'll just prescribe another little pill”
Chorus
Well the twitching soon subsided, but my eyelids wouldn't open,
I was dozy, droopy, drowsy, so I asked the doctor why,
He just took a little look in his now mufti-colored book,
Then he shook me from my slumbers with a cry
Chorus
Now my cupboard's overflowing with the pills that keep me going,
I've got yellow, pink and orange ones; I can't think what they're for
But they look so reassuring I suppose they must be curing me,
I wonder how I ever coped before without…
Chorus
Now the drug firms are delighted and they say I should be knighted,
Cos I keep their profits healthy and they've got a super plan,
To launch a major operation to present me to the nation,
As a fully working model of a well adjusted man
Chorus
Notes from The McCalmans' album “Festival Lights. Medication begets medication. It is a marketing dream to produce medication that in itself creates a market for more medication by producing side-effects and so on and so on. Of course no one would accuse any drugs firm of deliberately encouraging this but… it is a marketing dream. Switzerland doesn't make all its money selling cuckoo clocks and watches.
PLASTIC PADDY
(Eric Bogle)
He's just a plastic paddy, singing plastic paddy songs
In a plastic paddy pub that's called "The Blarney Stone"
There's plastic shamrocks on the walls, there's Guinness and green beer
And a sign in Gaelic above the bar which says "God Bless All Here!"
His guitar sounds like a wardrobe, and it's out of tune at that
His singing voice it ranges from F-sharp to F-flat
He's just desecrated "The Holy Ground", ripped apart "Black Velvet Band"
Sang, "Seven Nights Drunk" and now he's sunk "The Irish Rover" with all hands
He's just a plastic paddy, singing plastic paddy songs
In a plastic paddy pub that's called "The Blarney Stone"
The publican's a Proddy Scot by the name of McIntyre
Who does not allow collections for The Men Behind The Wire
He's done awful things to "Molly Malone" and the fair "Rose Of Tralee"
He's murdered "Carrickfergus" and poor old "Mother McCree"
He's thrashed his way through "Galway Bay" and "The Wild Irish Rose"
And if he starts singing "Danny Boy" I'm gonna punch him in the nose
He's just a plastic paddy, singing plastic paddy songs
In a plastic paddy pub that's called "The Blarney Stone"
There's Aer Lingus poster everywhere showing pretty Irish scenes
All peaceful and idyllic, and very bloody green
"When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" and "The Mountains of Mourne"
In his search for Celtic cliché your has left no stone unturned
Till he embarks upon "The Harp Once Through Tara's Halls"
Accompanying himself of the bodhràn which takes a lot of balls
He's just a plastic paddy, singing plastic paddy songs
In a plastic paddy pub that's called "The Blarney Stone"
He's just sung in his mother tongue, the ancient Irish Erse
And cleared the pub completely by the forty-second verse
Yes he's just a plastic paddy, singing plastic paddy songs
He's started singing "Danny Boy" so it's time that I was gone
And just one thought comes to my mind as I stagger out the door
Where are you when we need your Christy Moore
Where are you when we need your Christy Moore
POOL SONG
May the Lord upon high who rules the sky, look down on our pubs and bars
And the women and men all seated within, neglecting there pints and there jars
The crack it is bad the atmosphere bad, very man has a face like mule
For all he can do is to grab an oul cue and start playing that game called pool
Now when I was a boy it was always me joy to go to the pub each night
There were arguments, scraps and killings perhaps and everyone though he was right
There was badgers and dogs and men from the bogs and young fellas acting the tool
But now there's no crack for every man jack has his arse in the air playing pool
To the local ale house after milking the cows every customer made his way
And there he would dwell and drink till he fell while the fiddles and pipes they did play
The jigs and the reels, the rattling of heels, polkas and slides were the rule
But now there's no chance for a tune or a dance, for everyone's playing the old pool
Now pool you will find is a game designed for foolish, illiterate louts
You put in four bob and pull an old knob and a big shower of balls they come out
They're placed on the table and then if your able to knock them all in to a hole
More money goes in, you start over again and you lose every bob of your dole
Now in the Irish Free State all the people are beat from watching and playing this game
In their necks they have cricks which no doctor can fix & their backs and their shoulders are maimed
Their arses protrude in a manner most lewd from being hoisted aloft in the air
Their eye balls are sore and dripping with gore and they in a manner most quare
So if you meet a young man whose face it is wane and his eyes have a vacant stare
His jawbone is slack and his head is thrown back and he can't tell a cob from a mare
His nostrils dilated, his brow corrugated, his manners like those of a fool
On your shirt you can bet that you have just met, a man's that's gone plain mad for pool
POOR OLD DUBLIN TOWN
(Bobby Lynch)
Dublin City is falling, down falling, down falling down
Dublin City is falling down early in the morning
A thousand years ago they say they built a city in a bay
A pretty little city called founded by the Vikings
Chorus:
Well they're tearing it up and knocking it down
Knocking it down, knocking it down
Tearing it up and knocking it down, poor old Dublin town
I went for a walk along the quays, along the quays, along the quays
Diggers and shovels and J.C.B.'s were digging up the Vikings
Chorus:
Digging it up and pulling it down
Pulling it down, pulling it down
Digging it up and pulling it down, poor old Dublin town
A Viking came to Dublin town, Dublin town, Dublin town
Took one look and he turned around and sailed back home again
Chorus:
They were ripping it up and tearing down
Tearing down, tearing down
They were ripping it up and tearing down
Save our city save Wood Quay, don't destroy ,it leave it be
It's full our past and our history founded by the Vikings
Chorus:
Tearing it up and knocking it down, knocking it down, knocking it down
Tearing it up and knocking it down poor old Dublin town
Tearing it up and knocking it down, knocking it down, knocking it down
Tearing it up and knocking it down poor old Dublin town
My dear old Dublin town, ah Dublin's falling down
THE PORT O'LIETH PUBS
(Hugh McDougall)
Ship chandlers, panhandlers, skippers tae spare
Whalermen blowin' their Salvesen share
Merchantmen hame on rough-buckets and tubs
Gaither nae mair in Port O'Lieth pubs
Noo deckheids are ceiling and blukheids are wa's
The Crawsnest collapsed when the fleet shot the craw
So now it's a place where the landlubber lubs
The doldrums becalmed the old Port O'Lieth pubs
Smooth property pirates have plundered the Shore
Building bijou's and bistros and winebars galore
Old Barnacle Bill has been given a scrub
And anchors hauled up in Port O'Lieth pubs
New tradewinds blaw fresh wi' boutiques and bazaars
And yachtin' marinas for spare-time Jack Tars
And rulin' the waves now are nuclear subs
That should've been scrapped afore Port O'Lieth pubs
PREAB SAN OL
(Trust in Drink)
Why spend your leisure, bereft of pleasure, amassing treasure, why scrap and save
Why look so canny at every penny, you'll take no money within the grave
Landlords and gentry with all their plenty, must still go empty where ere they're found
So to my thinking, we best be drinkin', our glasses clinkin' another round
King Solomon's glory so famed in story, was far outshone by the lilies guise
But hard winds harden, both field and garden, pleadin for pardon the lily dies
Life's but a bauble of toil and trouble, the feathered arrow once shot ne'er found
So lads and lasses, because life passes, come fill your glasses another round
The huckster greedy, he blinds the needy with cries unheeded shouts money down
His special vices, his fancy prices for a florin value, he'll charge a crown
With hump for trammel the Scriptures camel missed the needle's eye and so came to ground
Why pine for riches, when still you've stitches to hold your britches up another round
When life you're tasting and money wasting and worry hastens to bid you care
What makes you easy, lazy and crazy, the world hazy beyond compare
There's them that's with us, sour, religious, who quite prodigious would bid us hold
Count every penny, do not spend any, by dry and canny and mind your gold
When sorrow binds you and salt tears blind you, hard drink will mind you and ease
your grief
Gay dissipation is the making, get down to taking some wet relief
There's many head men and quite well fed men and quite well dead men in six by fur
And before this Chorus is halfway o'er us, under the clover there's plenty more
THE PUB WITH NO BEER
Well, the publican's anxious for the quota to come,
There's a faraway look on the face of the bum,
The maid's gone all cranky and the cook's actin' queer -
What a terrible place is a pub with no beer!
Chorus:
Oh, it's lonesome away from your kindred and all
Round a campfire at night, where the wild dingoes call
But there's nothin' so lonesome, so morbid or drear
As to stand in the bar of a pub with no beer.
The stockman rides in with his dry, dusty throat,
Goes up to the bar, pulls a wad from his coat,
But the smile on his face quickly turns to a sneer
When the barman says suddenly, "The pub's got no beer!"
There's a dog on the verandah, for his master he waits,
But the boss is inside, drinkin' wine with his mates,
He hurries for cover and he cringes in fear,
It's no place for a dog, round a pub with no beer!
Then in comes the swagman, all covered with flies,
He throws down his roll, wipes the sweat from his eyes,
But when he is told he says, "What's this I hear?
I've trudged fifty flamin' miles to a pub with no beer!"
Oh, pity the blacksmith - first time in his life
He's gone home cold sober to his darlin' wife
He walks in the kitchen; she says, "You're early, my dear,"
Then he breaks down and he tells her that the pub's got no beer.