Whiskey in the Jar

Whiskey in the Jar

The Water is Wide

My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean

C F C Dm7 G7

My Bonnie lies o-ver the o-cean, my bonnie lies over the sea

C F C Dm7 G7 C

My Bonnie lies o-ver the o-cean, oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

C7 F Dm7 G7 C

Bring back, bring back, oh, bring back my Bonnie to me, to me

C7 F Dm7 G7 C

Bring back, bring back, oh, bring back my Bonnie to me

C F C Dm7 G7

Last night as I lay on my pillow, last night as I lay on my bed

C F C Dm7 G7 C

Last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamt that my Bonnie was dead.

C F C Dm7 G7

Oh, blow ye winds over the ocean, oh, blow ye winds over the sea

C F C Dm7 G7 C

Oh blow ye winds over the ocean, oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

C F C Dm7 G7

The winds have blown over the ocean, the winds have blown over the sea

C F C Dm7 G7 C

The winds have blown over the ocean, oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.

Peg O’ My Heart

Wild Mountain Thyme

Molly Malone

In Dublin's fair city where girls are so pretty

Twas there that I first met sweet Molly Malone

As she wheeled her wheelbarrow

Through street broad and narrow

Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

Alive, alive oh, alive, alive oh,

Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

Now she was a fishmonger and sure twas no wonder

For so were her mother and father before

And they each wheeled their barrows

Through streets broad and narrow

Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

She died of a faver and no one could save her

And that was the end of sweet Molly Malone

Now her ghost wheels her barrow

Through streets broad and narrow

Crying, "Cockles and mussels, alive, alive oh"

Red is the Rose

1. Over the mountains and down in the glen

To a little thatched cot in the valley

where the thrush and the linnet sing their ditty and their song

And my love's leaning over the half-door

Chorus:

Red is the rose that in yonder garden grows

Fair is the lily of the valley

Clear are the waters that flow in yonder stream

But my love is fairer than any.

2. Down by the seashore on a cool summer's eve

With the moon rising over the heather

The moon it shown fair on her head of golden hair

And she vowed she'd be my love forever.

3. It is not for the loss of my own sister Kate

It is not for the loss of my mother,

It is all for the loss of my bonnie blue-eyed lass

That I'm leaving my homeland forever.

Joe Heaney, via Helen Schneyer & Lucy Simpson

Brennan on the Moor

'Tis of a brave young highwayman this story I will tell

His name was Willie Brennan and in Ireland he did dwell

It was on the Kilwood Mountain he commenced his wild career

And many a wealthy nobleman before him shook with fear

It was Brennan on the moor, Brennan on the moor

Bold, brave and undaunted was young Brennan on the moor

One day upon the highway as young Willie he went down

He met the mayor of Cashiell a mile outside of town

The mayor he knew his features and he said, Young man, said he

Your name is Willie Brennan, you must come along with me

Now Brennan's wife had gone to town provisions for to buy

And when she saw her Willie she commenced to weep and cry

Said, Hand to me that tenpenny, as soon as Willie spoke

She handed him a blunderbuss from underneath her cloak

Now with this loaded blunderbuss - the truth I will unfold -

He made the mayor to tremble and he robbed him of his gold

One hundred pounds was offered for his apprehension there

So he, with horse and saddle to the mountains did repair

Now Brennan being an outlaw upon the mountains high

With cavalry and infantry to take him they did try

He laughed at them with scorn until at last 'twas said

By a false-hearted woman he was cruelly betrayed

They hanged Brennan at the crossroads, in chains he hung and dried

But still they say that, in the night, some do see him ride

They see him with his blunderbuss, all in the midnight chill

Along, along the King's highway rides Willie Brennan still!

Willie Brennan was an Irish Robin Hood in the late 1700s in County Cork.

Sung by the Clancy Brothers, Ives, several others

By the Hush

It's by the hush, me boys

I'm sure that's to hold your noise,

And listen to poor Paddy's narration.

For I was by hunger pressed,

And in poverty distressed,

And I took a thought I'd leave the Irish nation.

cho: So, here's you boys,

Do take my advice;

To Americay I'd have youse not be farin'

For there's nothing here but war,

Where the murdering cannons roar,

And I wish I was at home in dear old Erin.

I sold me horse and plough,

Me little pigs and cow,

And me little farm of land and I parted.

And me sweetheart, Biddy McGhee,

I'm sure I'll never see,

For I left her there that morning, broken hearted.

Meself, and a hundred more,

To America sailed o'er,

Our fortune to be making, we was thinking;

But when we landed in Yankee land,

They shoved a gun into our hand,

Saying," Paddy, you must go and fight for Lincoln. "

General Mahar (Meagher) to us said,

"If you get shot or lose your head,

Every murdered soul of you will get a pension."

Well, in the war I lost me leg

All I've now is a wooden peg;

I tell you, 'tis the truth to you I'll mention.

Now I think meself in luck

To be fed upon Indian buck

In old Ireland, the country I delight in;

And with the devil I do say,

"Curse Americay, "

For I'm sure I've had enough on their hard fighting.

Galway Bay

Arthur Colahan

If you ever go across the sea to Ireland,

Then maybe at the closing of your day,

You will sit and watch the moon rise over Cladagh

And see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

Just to hear again the ripple of the trout stream,

The women in the meadows making hay;

And to sit beside a turf fire in the cabin

And watch the barefoot gossoons at their play.

For the breezes blowing o'er the sea to 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.

For the strangers tried top come and teach us their way

They scorned us just for being what we are;

But they might as well go chasing after moonbeams

Or light a penny candle from a star.

And if there is going to be a life hereafter,

And somehow I am sure there's going to be,

I shall ask my God to let me make my heaven

In that dear land across the Irish Sea.

If you ever go across the sea to Ireland,

Then maybe at the closing of your day,

You will sit and watch the moon rise over Cladagh

And see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

Jug of Punch

'Twas early, early, in the month of June

I was sitting with my glass and spoon.

A small bird sat on an ivy bunch

And the song he sang was a jug of punch.

CHO: Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie

Toor-a-loora-la, toor-a-loora-lie

(repeat last two lines of verse)

If I were sick, and very bad

And were not able to go or stand,

I would not think it at all amiss

To pledge my shoes for a jug of punch.

CHO:

What more diversion can a man desire

Than to sit him down by a snug turf fire,

Upon his knee a pretty wench

And upon his table a jug of punch.

CHO:

And when I'm dead and in my grave

No costly tombstone will I have,

I'll dig a grave both wide and deep

With a jug of punch at my head and feet.

Old Orange Flute

In the county Tyrone, in the town of Dungannon

Where many a ruckus meself had a hand in

Bob Williamson lived there, a weaver by trade

And all of us thought him a stout-hearted blade.

On the twelfth of July as it yearly did come

Bob played on the flute to the sound of the drum

You can talk of your fiddles, your harp or your lute

But there's nothing could sound like the Old Orange Flute.

But the treacherous scoundrel, he took us all in

For he married a Papish named Bridget McGinn

Turned Papish himself and forsook the Old Cause

That gave us our freedom, religion and laws.

And the boys in the county made such a stir on it

They forced Bob to flee to the province of Connaught;

Took with him his wife and his fixins, to boot,

And along with the rest went the Old Orange Flute.

Each Sunday at mass, to atone for past deeds,

Bob said Paters and Aves and counted his beads

Till one Sunday morn, at the priest's own require

Bob went for to play with the flutes in the choir.

He went for to play with the flutes in the mass

But the instrument quivered and cried."O Alas!"

And blow as he would, though he made a great noise,

The flute would play only "The Protestant Boys".

Bob jumped up and huffed, and was all in a flutter.

He pitched the old flute in the best holy water;

He thought that this charm would bring some other sound,

When he tried it again, it played "Croppies Lie Down!"

And for all he would finger and twiddle and blow

For to play Papish music, the flute would not go;

"Kick the Pope" to "Boyne Water" was all it would sound

Not one Papish bleat in it could e'er be found.

At a council of priests that was held the next day

They decided to banish the Old Flute away;

They couldn't knock heresy out of its head

So they bought Bob another to play in its stead.

And the Old Flute was doomed, and its fate was pathetic

'Twas fastened and burnt at the stake as heretic.

As the flames rose around it, you could hear a strange noise

'Twas the Old Flute still a-whistlin' "The Protestant Boys".

Rising of the Moon

"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so?"

"Hush me bhuachail, hush and listen," and his face was all aglow

"I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon

With your pike upon your shoulder for the rising of the moon"

"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, where the gatherin' is to be?"

"Near the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me"

"One more thing, the signal token?" "Whistle up the marching tune

For our pikes must be together by the rising of the moon"

Out from many a mud-walled cabin, eyes were lookin' through the night

Many a manly heart was throbin' for the blessed morning light

A cry arose along the river, like some banshee's mournful croon

And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

All along the shining river one black mass of men was seen

And above them in the night wind floated our immortal green

Death to every foe and traitor. Onward, strike the marching tune

And hurrah me boys for freedom, it's the rising of the moon

Well they fought for dear old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate,

Oh what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of ninety-eight.

But thank God e'en now are beating hearts in mankind's burning noon,

Who will follow in their footsteps, at the rising of the moon.

20