Songs to Learn & Carry

An Raibh tú ag an gCarraig

An raibh tú ag an gCarraig, nó a’ bhfaca tú féin mo ghrá
A’ bhfaca tú gile nó finne nó scéimh na mná?
A’ bhfaca tú an t-úll is cumhra ‘sba mhílse bláth?
Nó an bhfaca tú mo Valentine , nó an bhfuil sí dá chloígh mar atáim.

Bhí mé ag an gcarraig, is chonaic mé féin do ghrá.
Chonaic mé gile is finne is scéimh na mná
Is a chonaic me an t-úll, ba chumhra ‘sba mhílse bláth.
Is chonaic mé do Valentine, is níl sí dá chloígh mar atáim.

Is fiú cúig ghiní ríbe dá gruaig mar an ór,
Agus is fiú a chéad oiread do chuideachta dhá uair gach ló;
A cúilín trom triopallach ag titim go sála bróg-
Faoi thuairim sláinte an bhruinnill is níor mhiste liom do shláinte ól.

Is siúd í thíos í, an rí-bhean álainn óg,
Go bhfuil a gruaig léithe síos go híochtar béal a bróg;
Is í an eala ar an dtoinn í a shíolraigh ón ardfhuil mhór;
O! a charaid gheal mo chroí thú agus céad mile fáilte romhat.

Cáit i nGharrán a Bhile

Cúrfa
An raibh tú riamh I nGarrán a Bhile?
Nó an bhfaca tú í I nGarrán a Bhile?
An tsuairc-bhean óg na gcuacha óir?
‘Sí Cáit mo stóir I nGarrán a Bhile.

Is gile í ná eala ar linn
Sna sneachta ar bharr na craoibhe cuilinn
‘S milse a póg ná drúcht na rós
‘Sí Cáit mo stór I nGarrán a Bhile. (Cúrfa)
Cúrfa

Is binne a ceol ná lon ‘sa smól
A’s na filiméala ar chraoibhe na saile
Mar loing faoi sheol ar thoinn gan cheó
Sea chimes mo stór I nGarrán a Bhile (Cúrfa)
Cúrfa

Chughatsa a Chríost, le fonn mo ghuí
Má tá aon bhrí le guí an bhfile
Gan cáin, gan chíos, gan phráinn gan dhíth
Go raibh Cáit is a budhin I nGarrán a Bhile.
Cúrfa

Scríobh Edward Lysaght as Co. an Chláir an t-amhrán seo. (1763-1809)
Rugadh Lysaght I gCreatlach I gContae an Chláir i 1763 agus fuair sé a chuid oideachais I scoil ‘Doctor Hare’ I gCaiseal agus I gColáiste na Trionóide agus Oxford ina dhiaidh sin.
For those wondering what a ‘bile ‘ might be, it is a great or a sacred tree and Cáit from Garrán a’Bhile/Kate from the Grove of the Sacred tree, would grow up to be one of the belles of Tipperary

An Páistín Fionn:

Grá lem’ anam mo pháistín fionn
A bhfuil a croí is a haigne ag gáire liom
A cíocha geala mar bláth na gcrann
Is a píob mar eala lá Márta
Cúrfa:
Is tusa mo rún, mo rún, mo rún
Is tusa mo rún is mo ghrá geal
Is tusa mo rún is mo chumann go buan
‘Sé mo chreach gan tú agam ó do mháithrín

Cara mo chroí, mo pháistín fionn
A bhfuil a dá grua ar lasadh mar bhláth na dtom
Tá mise saor ar mo pháistín fionn
Ach amháin gur d’ólas a sláinte
Cúrfa

Dá mbéinnse sa bhaile ina bhfuil súgradh is greann
Nó idir dhá bhairille lán de leann
Mo stóirín i’m aice is mo lámh faoi’n a ceann
Nach súgach a d’ólfainn a sláinte
Cúrfa

Chaith mé naoí n-oiche ag luí go bocht
Sínte faoí dhíleann idir dhá thor
A chumann mo chroí, is mé ag smaoineamh ort
Is ná faighinnse le fead ná le glaoch thu
Cúrfa

Tréigfead mo mhuintir is mo cháirde gaoil
Tréigfead a mhaireann de mhnáibh an tsaoil
Ach ní thréigfead lem’ mharthain thu, a stór mo chroí
Go síntear i gcómhra faoí chlár mé
Cúrfa

An Abhainn Mhór (Mall)

Tá mo mháithrín go tréan lag
agus tá sí aonraic ar Chaladh na mBád.
Bíonn sí ag osnaíl is ag éagaoin
chuile oíche Domhnaigh go mbíonn sé ina lá.
Tá a comrádaí sínte i gCill Bhríde
is tá leac ar a cheann.
Is tá a mac ina cheann siamsa
ar fud na tíre agus jug ina lámh.

Is nach bhfuil grá do dháréag agam
is tá siad aonraic ar aon tsloinne amháin.
Ach tá bean óg ar an méid sin,
ní fhéadfaidh mé a hainm a rá,
Go n-athraí Loch Éirne
s go dtréige an eala a clúmhach bán.
Ní inseoidh mé go héag daoibh
cén réasún le go dtug mé di grá.

Nach bhfuil grá do chailín óg agam
is deir go leor liom nach mairfidh sí mí,
Nuair a théimse go teach an ósta,
níl spórt ann is deise ná í,
Tá a grua mar an rósa
is tá sí ag doirteadh na meala ar chaon taobh,
Is an té a bhlaisfeadh dá póigín is é mo thuairim
go mbeadh fad ar a shaol.

Ach chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn
ní dhéanfaidh mé ciste ná stór,
Chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn
ní thréigfidh mé comhluadar óg,
Chúns a bheas mé beo in Éirinn
nach bpléascfaidh mé an jug ar an mbord,
Le do shláintese, a mhíle stóirín,
‘s é an trua nach liom do dhá bhó.

Dar mo mhionna agus mo mhóide,
is dar leabhar mór a bhfuil mé ag dul tríd,
I gcomhluadar ban óg
go deo deo ní ghabhfaidh mé arís,
Mar is leo a chaith mé mo bhróga
ó thús m’óige go dtí deireadh mo shaoil
Is nár fhágadar i mo sheó mé
ag cur tuairisc cá gcodlóinn an oíche.

Ach murach m’óige is mo dhícéille
nach lách éasca mar a chaithfinn mo shaol
Nuair a chuaigh mé thar sáile le Máirín
ar uair an mheán oíche
Agus bhuail mé faoi na Búrcaigh,
dream a diúltaíodh as flaithis na naomh
Is nár fhágadar faoi bhrón mé
is tá ag gabháil orm amach go Trá Lí

Nach bhfuil mo chóta mór stróicthe
ó ghlúin is tá sé ag sileadh liom síos,
Ach an té a chuirfeadh caoi is cóir air
céad faraor tá sé i bhfad ó mo shlinn.
An tailliúr glan cóir ar an Aird Mhóir
mar atá Tomáisín Bán
Is nach gcuirfeadh sé píosa air
is green velvet aniar trína lár.

Mo mhíle slán leat, a Abhainn Mhóir bhoicht,
is é mo thrua gan mé anocht le do thaobh
Mar is iomaí sin bóithrín caol uaigneach atá ag
dul idir mé is tú
Nach ann a bhíodh an spórt againn chuile oíche
Domhnaigh ag cur gaisce ina shuí
Is nach mbíodh jug ar an mbord ann is bhíodh
mo stóirín fial fairsing dá roinnt

Ceardlann sean-nóis le Mairéad Ní Fhlatharta
Amhránaí Cónaitheach, Ollscoil na Gaillimhe 2024

Barr an tSléibhe (Séamas ‘Ac Oscair)

Ó, is a Mháire tá díchéille ort mura dté tú liom ‘un tsléibhe
Na fág anseo liom fhéin mé go huaigneach ins an oíche,
Tá do theach mór dhá dhéanamh faoi sheomraí geala ina éadain,
Agus beidh muid ann go haerach mo léan ar bheagán cíos.

Is dhá bhfeicfeá barr an tsléibhe nuair a bhíonn an ghrian ag éirí,
Níl duibheacán sa spéir ann na gangaid in san ngaoth,
Tá na broic ar thaobh an léana, tá an sionnach rua ar na péaca,
Is tá an giorria ag bocléimní le pléisiúr in san bhfraoch.

Tá úth na mba ag pléascadh ann ag teacht abhaile ag géimneach,
Is binn deas ceol na n-éan ann in sna gleannta teacht na hoíche,
Tá an fear is an bhean in éineacht go grámhar lena chéile,
is an seanduine a bheadh na céadta bliain níorbh fhada leis an oíche.

Tá coirce bán is eorna ann, tá fataí is rud go leor ann,
Tá cuireadh ag lucht bóthair ann is fáilte roimh gach n-aon;
Tá Ó Raghallaigh ag seinm ceoil ann, tá fíon, tá brandy is beoir ann,
I gcomhluadar daoine móra tá an t-airgead á roinnt.

Tá an still ag rith i gcónaí ‘s na baraillí á líonadh,
Tá cuireadh ag clann na ríthe a bheith go síoraí ann ag ól,
Ta an sagart ann is cóire dhá bhfaighfeá in aon deoise,
A Mháire, tóg mo chomhairle, ó éirigh is éalaigh liom.

The Lovely River Finn

I was born in the year of ’08 in a place called Ballyhone,
And underneath the old stone bridge, the River Finn does flow,
It takes its way through meadows green, past Newtown and Lisnaskea,
‘Til it joins the Erne, the winding Erne, and it flows onto the sea.

When I was young, I went to school in a place they call Clanrye,
Where an Irish king his dwelling had in days long, long gone by,
There were forty pupils on the roll, and they kicked up quite a din,
They all had homes convenient to the lovely River Finn.

Our master was a master man, what a kindly man was he,
His assistant was a local girl called Miss Mc Caffery.
Each morning, then at the stroke of ten, our lessons did begin;
Back home at four, we’d walk the shore of the lovely River Finn.

Oh, it’s many the pleasant hour I spent along the river shore;
Now my childhood days are past and gone, they’ll not come back to me no more.
Where I trawled for pike, I fished for perch, I watched the spoon-bait spin;
When the wind was west, the sport was best on the lovely River Finn.

Now I’m old and grey, I must away, for all men they must die.
In the green graveyard near Collin’s church, let my old bones gently lie.
In the heavens above with the Lord I love, a new life I will begin,
For never more will I walk the shore of the lovely River Finn.

The Second Hand Trousers

There are stories afloat that are hard to believe,
There are stories afloat that are meant to deceive,
But here is a story that’s perfectly true.
About second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, about the second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo

Now the Missus was sick, I gave Jamie the job,
And when he was leaving, I gave him ten bob,
He brought me those yokers and he hoped they would do,
They’re a quare pack of twisters up there in Belcoo,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, They’re a quare pack of twisters up there in Belcoo,

When the wife saw the trousers, she flew in a rage,
Saying “These are no wear for a man of your age,
With one leg sewed black and the other sewed blue,
Ah, they’d rob a child’s bottle up there in Belcoo”
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, Ah, they’d rob a child’s bottle up there in Belcoo

Now I raced from the kitchen out into the yard,
When my own dog he saw me, he nearly went mad,
Then hens flew like blazes, the old rooster crew,
At the second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo.
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, at the second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo.

That evening two ladies arrived in a car,
Saying “We are collecting for the Army Bazaar”,
I gave them a parcel and they said “Thank you”
‘Twas the second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo.
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, Twas the second-hand trousers I bought in Belcoo.

Now at the Bazaar, sure, we all had great fun,
When the trousers went up and the rickety spun.
In the mad tear for tickets, I only got two,
But I won back the trousers I bought in Belcoo.
Tra-la-la, tra-la-loo, and I won back the trousers I bought in Belcoo.

Carrig River

As I roved out one evening in the pleasant month of May
It was down by Carrig River I carelessly did stray
The hawthorn and sweet briar they would your heart illume
And the rippling of the water when the fraughans were in bloom

I do remember long ago when together we did roam
Through the lovely dells of Carrig where the woodcock makes his home
Where all nature it seems smiling along each rocky side
And the silvery stream flows down between to join the Slaney tide

It’s oft times that with vain regrets we think of things we’ve seen
We have lived the past but can’t forget and mourn what might have been
As we strolled along, the sweet bird’s song was ringing in the sky
Oe’r the lonely graves of Carrig where our ‘98 men lie

We oft times go to view the place where our comrades they do lie
Where oft we joined in harmless sport in days now long gone by
Our hearts were young we knew no care as through the fields we strayed
But in vain that they have passed away where oft times we had played

The thoughts of you sweet Carrig are constant in my mind
I have roamed this wide world over your equal I can’t find
Your lofty trees and waterfalls it’s them I do adore
So fare thee well sweet Carrig adieu forever more

Carrig River is an out and out Wexford town song. It was written by James “Messa” Nolan and James “Shaw”Mc Grath from the Hill St area of Wexford town in 1890.

Carrig Wood was a popular area for towns people to stroll to on a Sunday afternoon before the arrival of the motor car. This quiet and pleasant rural area is scarcely considered today, but its name is well revered by the older generation of Wexford towns people.

Pol and Nancy Hogan

Near Wexford town there is a place, a place called Ballybogan
And in that place there lived two maids called Pol and Nancy Hogan
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

Now Nancy bought a little pig and she hired Pol to mind it
And just like any other little pig it carried it’s tail behind it
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

Now Pol she bought another one and isn’t it a wonder
That in a week you wouldn’t know these two little pigs asunder
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

Two culeans walking by the road when the two little pigs were feedin
Pulled out their knives, cut off their tails and sent them home all bleedin
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

Now Nancy went to a court of law, before the judge and jury
And Pol steps up before the bench for to read out her story
Saying if your honour was a pig which I hope you’ll never be sir
If a blackguard came and cut off your tail wouldn’t you roar and bawl and squeal sir
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

The magistrate stood up and said their rumps will soon be mendin
And pigs will snore and fatten more without their tails attendin
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

These two old maidens Pol and Nan, they lived a life quite airy
And not a word was ever spoke but every word contrary
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero

Now Nancy died on a Saturday night and Pol she died on Sunday
They waked the two on Sunday night and buried them both on Monday
With me tooriah fol dah diddle ah toor I fol dah diddle aero
Toori oori fol da diddle doori toori fol da diddle dayrio

The Rollicking Boys Around Tandragee

Good luck to all here now barring the cat
That sits in the corner there smelling a rat
O wheesht your philandering girls and behave
And saving your presence, I’ll chant you a stave
I come from the land where the pritties grow big
And the girls neat and handy can swirl in a jig
And the boys they would charm your heart for to see
Those raring fine fellows ‘round Tandragee.

Chorus
So here’s to the boys who are happy and gay
Singing and dancing and tearing away
Rollicks and frollicks, and frisky and free
With the rollicking boys around Tandragee

No doubt you have heard of Killarney I’m sure
And sweet Innishowen for a drop of the pure
Dublin’s the place for the strawberry beds
And Donnybrook Fair for the cracking of heads
Have you e’er seen an Irishman dancing palltog
How he faces his partner and turns up his brogue
He shakes at the buckle and bends at the knee
They’re wonderful dancers in Tandragee.
Chorus

Now the oul jaunting car is an elegant joult
And Derry’s a place that is famed for a hoult
Among the green bushes that grow in Tyrone
And the County Fermanagh for muscle and bone
But for feasting and dancing and fun at the fair
Sure there’s no one can match with the Rakes of Kildare
Green Erin’s my country, the gem of the sea
But the gem of oul Ireland is Tandragee.
Chorus

O where is the man, either Christian or Turk
Could equal the bold Robert Emmett or Burke
O where is the lawyer can speak up like Dan
The devil another, bad luck to the one
And where is the singer can sing like Tom Moore
Whose melodies charm all dull care from your door
But we’ll beat them all yet boys, and that you will see
For we’re raring fine fellows round Tandragee.
Chorus

Moorlough Mary

The first time I saw my young Moorlough Mary
‘T was at the market of sweet Strabane,
Her smiling countenance was so engaging
The hearts of young men she did trepan;
Her killing glances bereft my senses
Of peace and comfort by night and day
In my silent slumber I start with wonder –
Oh Moorlough Mary, will you come away?

To see this darling on a summer’s morning
When Flora’s fragrance bedecks the lawn,
Her neat deportment and manners courteous
Around her sporting the lamb and fawn;
On her I ponder where ere I wander
And still grow fonder, sweet maid, of thee,
By thy matchless charms I am enamoured
Oh, Moorlough Mary, will you come away?

On Moorlough’s banks I will ever wander
Where heifers graze on a pleasant soil,
With lambkins sporting, fair maids resorting,
The timorous hare and blue heather bell;
I’ll press my cheese while my wool’s a teasing
My ewes I’ll milk at the peep of day
When the whirling Moorcock and lark alarms me
From Moorlough banks I’ll never stray.

Were I a man of great education
And Ireland’s nation at my command,
I’d lay my hand on your snowy shoulder
In wedlock’s portion, I’d take your hand
I’d entertain you both night and morning
With robes I’d deck you both bright and gay
And with jewels rare, love, I would adorn you,
Oh, Moorlough Mary will you come away?

Old Ballymoe.

In the County Roscommon in hail stones and rain
I was crossing the fields on my way to the train
I met a colleen and says she, “do you know
The shortest short cut into old Ballymoe?”

Says I, “colleen óg, who led you astray?
I think I’ll go with you and show you the way”
Says she, “I’m afraid because you I don’t know
You might kiss me between here and old Ballymoe.”

Says I, “colleen óg, I’ve seldom been kissed”
Says she, “you poor lad, sure a lot you have missed”
Says I, “I am willing to learn you know,
We can practise between here and old Ballymoe.”

“Do you think I’d walk with you, you Mullingar rogue?
I don’t like your looks or your smooth ringing brogue
You’re young and you’re handsome but dear knows you’re slow
And we don’t like a dead one in old Ballymoe.”

Says I, “I’ve been noted for strength and for looks,
And my brains’ not so bad for I’ve mastered the books
So if you say yes, to be married we’ll go
And forever be happy in old Ballymoe.”

She started to laugh ‘till I thought she would choke
She says, you poor cluasán I will tell you a joke
Step out of my way, sir, for now I must go
I’ve a husband and six kids in old Ballymoe.”

In the County Roscommon in hail stones or rain
If you’re crossing the fields on your way to the train.
Beware of the colleen that you do not know
She might just be married in Old Ballymoe!”

The Boatman of Lough Key

In a cold and silent churchyard in a place called Ballindoon,
There sleeps a famous boatman in a cold and silent tomb,
He is missed by all his many friends at home and overseas
And he is missed by all the children, the boatman of Lough Key.

On many a summer evening and Sunday afternoon,
Jim Flynn he sailed his pleasure boat along the shores of Doon,
Where crowds of tourists in line appear all anxious for to see
The many lovely islands in the waters of Lough Key.

They proudly step on board with Jim and feel no hurt or harm,
They knew he was a sailor bold and weathered many a storm,
He’d take them round the islands and McDermott’s Castle too
And he’d tell them all the legends as only he could do.

Next came the shores of Rockingham and its lovely trees and lawns,
He’d tell the tragic story of the charming Úna Bhán,
And take them to her resting place where she sleeps beneath the clay
Where the wild birds sing in requiem until the judgement day.

Jim was a great historian, his likes was hard to find,
When asked for his opinion he’d quickly speak his mind.
It was good to hear him tell the tales of Ireland long ago,
That he heard from all the old folk around his native Carrigeenroe.

Now the summer sun it shines once more and the tourists line the shore,
Their little boats swim over the waves, but Jim he is no more.
The angels came and called him home for all eternity,
For the Lord has found a better place for the boatman of Lough Key.

Ould Paddy McCarthy

On the edge of a bog, on a splendid estate
With acres of rushes outside his grand gate
And the turf grew spontaneous – in Winter, – to hate
The shins of ould Paddy McCarthy.

Chorus
Right fol-the dol-oll the doll – oll oll-the doll-dee
Right fol-the dol-oll the doll – oll oll-the doll-dee
Right fol-the dol-oll the doll dee –
To hate the auld shins of McCarthy.

The children along with the pigs used to play
For Paddy loved bacon, ’twas always his way
He would not give a farthin’ for coffee or tay
The “dhrop” was the stuff for McCarthy.

Chorus
Right fol, the doll, oll the doll, oll the doll ee 3 times
Line 4. The dhrop was the stuff for McCarthy.

A jar of poteen was laid on the shelf
Along with the noggins and other ould delph
And whenever he drank, he drank to himself
“Here’s a health to ould Paddy McCarthy”

Chorus  3 lines as before
Line 4. “Here’s a health to ould Paddy Mc Carthy”

On a fine Summer’s day it was always his plan
To stretch himself outside the ditch like a man
But the flies were the ‘dickens,’ they always began
to bite the ould nose off McCarthy

Chorus 3 lines as before
Line 4. To bite the ould nose off McCarthy.

An’ when he’d go out, to a market or fair
His big brawny chest was exposed to the air.
Sorra cravat he ever could wear.
‘Twould smother ould Paddy McCarthy.

Chorus 3 lines as before
Line 4. ‘Twould smother ould Paddy McCarthy.

One night at a wake he got drunk as a beast
And who should he meet but his own Parish Priest
“Well Paddy,” says he “you’ll be damned now at least”
“I’ll be damned, if I will”, says Mc Carthy

Chorus: 3 lines as before and repeat
“I’ll be damned if I will”, says McCarthy

THE PRIDE OF DROMOD TOWN

Here comes Peter Morahan
The pride of Dromod town
And if you call to see him
He is sure to stand a round.
CHORUS: Fill ‘em up, fill ‘em up
Fill ‘em up ‘round Dromod Town.

If e’er you’re feeling tipsy
Or perhaps you’re feeling slack
A glass of special whiskey
you can have from Mary Mac. CHORUS

If ever you are tired
Or perhaps you want a car
You will find accommodation
At Mc Kiernan’s whiskey bar. CHORUS

If a pair of boots you’re wanting
I will tell you where to go
For all the finest quality
is sold by Annie Crow. CHORUS

She sells tea and snuff, tobacco
And has everything you need.
For all her finest quality
Is safely guaranteed. CHORUS

If you require a blacksmith
Just call down the Shannon lane.
Or if you want to go abroad
You can get the Midland train. CHORUS

And if you want a motor car
On Diffley you can call
Or visit the Post Office
Miss McGlynn will serve you all. CHORUS

Ah, Dromod is a lovely spot
Down by the Shannon shore.
You’ll have to write a verse yourself
If you want any more. CHORUS

MARY ÓG MO CHROÍ
Dear Erin’s heath-clad mountains are beautiful to view,
Likewise her hills and fountains and lakes of rolling blue.
But on these hills and sparkling mills there are no joys for me
Since You beneath the clay now sleep young Mary óg mo chroí.

And fond memory brings me back the hours when over the mountains wild,
I wandered through those perfumed bowers with Mary young and mild.
And when beneath those shady trees we sat down silently,
Or listening to the blustering breeze with Mary óg mo chroí.

Her cheeks were like the rose so red, upon the mountain side.
Her neck was like the foam that flows, down by Lough Gara’s tide.
Her eyes shone like two diamonds most beautiful to see
And my hearts delight, both day and night was Mary óg mo chroí.

In Callow’s lone and shady Groves, some comely maidens dwell
But she the queen of perfumed flowers from the Callow maidens fell.
No more the summer sun will shine on our meadows cheerily,
Since You beneath the clay now sleep young Mary óg mo chroí.

No more in Callows shady bowers gladsomely shall we stray.
No more in Callows shady bowers will we while the hours away.
No more we’ll meet on Frenchpark Street or view its verdant lea
For beneath the clay in Clooneshamble lawn sleeps Mary óg mo chroí.