DICEY RILEY
Ah poor old Dicey Riley she has taken to the sup, and p
Poor old Dicey Riley she will never give it up
It's off each morning to the pub, and then she's in for another little drop
The heart of the rowl is Dicey Riley.

She walks down Fitzgibbon Street with an independent air
And then it's down to Summerhill, at her the people stare
She says 'It's nearly half past one, so I'll nip in for another little one'.
Ah, the heart of the rowl is Dicey Riley.

She owns a little sweetshop at the corner of the street,
And every evening after school I go to wash her feet,
She leaves me there to mind shop, while she nips in for another little drop,
Ah, the heart of the rowl is Dicey Riley

BELFAST TOWN
It's now twenty years since the last time I stepped
Through a door that's no more in a house that is gone.
And said farewell to all in Turf Lodge and the falls,
And set sail from the Quay in the chill mist of dawn.
As the ship sailed away to the great USA
Through the mist in my eyes I could see my town receding.
And the cries of the gulls in the skies seemed to say
Hurry back, hurry home to Belfast town.

Now the years they have gone and I've come back again,
Not by ship but by plane, with prosperities mark.
Just a kid from the Falls, made it good in New York,
But I'd trade it all in for the years back again.
For my town it has changed where the bombs rearranged
All the places I knew, all burned down and wrapped in iron.
And the kids of to-day have no fun in their play,
Where's your laughter to-day Belfast Town.

I remember a time on the twelfth of July
When the bands from the Shankill, they would march down our way.
And our lassies and lads in their shamrock and green,
As they followed sang loud of the Bold Fenian Men.
For the game it was then, to sing louder, and when
it was o'er to go home and in peace to our beds.
Where's the music to-day that can come down our way?
Where's your singing to-day Belfast Town.

Now young Bobby McCracken, he was sweet on the ball,
For the Sandy Row Rovers in Orange and Red.
When they beat us ten nil, I remember it still,
At the end, took his hand as a friend, now he's dead.
For he dared to cry halt to the carnage and woe,
And to pray for the dead, and to reconcile the living.
And the buried the bits the found after the bomb.
One more name on your list, Belfast Town.

Now I'm leaving to-day, ne'er to come back no more.
For the pain is too strong and the memories too clear.
My friends and relations, all dead now or gone.
Will you weep Belfast City for the days that are o'er.
And when peace comes again and the hatred had gone,
You can take my bones back for to rest in your clay.
There's a bond that unites both the Shankill and Falls,
It's the white 'neath your clay, Belfast Town.
(c) Reg Keating (KT Music)
Used by permission

ARTHUR MC BRIDE
Me and me cousin, young Arthur Mc Bride
He and I took a stroll down by the sea-side
And mark what happened, and what might betide
It being as the day was a-dawning.
Then after resting we both took a tramp
We met sergeant Harper and corporal Cramp
Besides the wee drummer who beat up for camp
With his rowdy dow-dow in the morning.

He says 'My young fellows, if you will enlist
A Guinea you quickly shall have in your fist
Besides a crown for to kick up the dust
And drink the King's health in the morning.'
Had we been such fools as to take the advance
The wee bitter morning we had run to chance
For you'd think it no scruple to send us to France
Where we would be killed in the morning

He says 'My young fellows, if I hear but one word
I instantly now will out with my sword
And into your bodies as strength will afford
So now, my gay devils take warning,
But Arthur and I we took in the odds
We gave them no chance to lunge out their swords
Our whacking shillelaghs came over their heads
And paid them right smart in the morning.

As for the wee drummer' we rifled his pouch
And we made a football of his rowdy-dow-dow
And into the ocean to rock and to row
And bade him a tedious returning.
As for the old rapier that hung by his side,
We flung it as far as we could in the tide,
To the devil I bid you, says Arthur Mc Bride,
To temper your steel in the morning.'

THE TOWN OF BALLYBAY
In the town of Ballybay there is a lassie dwelling
I knew her very well And the story is worth telling
Her father kept a still - he was a good distiller
And when she took a drink, well, the devil wouldn't fill her

CHORUS
With me ring a do a dum - me ring a do a daddio
Me ring a do a dum - whack fol da daddio

She had a wooden leg that was hollow down the middle
She used to tie a string on it and play it like a fiddle
She fiddled in the hall - she fiddled in the alleyway
She didn't give a damn - she had to fiddle anyway
Chorus

She said she couldn't dance - unless she had her wellie on
And when she had them on she could dance as well as anyone
She wouldn't go to bed - unless she had her shimmy on
But when she had it on she would go as quick as anyone
Chorus

She had lovers by the score - every Tom and Dick and Harry
She was courting night and day - but still she wouldn't marry
And then she fell in love with a fella with a stammer
When he tried to run away - she hit him with a hammer
Chorus

She had childer up the stairs - she had childer in the brier
And another ten or twelve sat roaring by the fire
She fed them on potatoes and on soup she made with nettles
On lumps of hairy bacon that she boiled up in a kettle
Chorus

She led a sheltered life - eating porrige and black pudding
She terrorised her man until he died right sudden
And when her husband died she was feeling very sorry
She rolled him in a bag and she threw hin in a quarry
Chorus

BIDDY MULLIGAN
I'm a buxon fine widow I Live in a spot,
In Dublin they call it the Coombe.
Me shops and stalls are laid out in the street,
And me palace consists of one room.
I Sell apples and oranges nuts and sweet peas,
Bannanas and sugar stick sweet.
On a Saturday night I sell second hand clothes,
From the floor of me stall in the street.

CHORUS
You may travel from Clare to the County Kildare,
From Francis Street back to the Coombe.
But where would you see a fine widow like me,
Biddy Mulligan the pride of the Coombe, me boys,
Biddy Mulligan and the pride of the Coombe.

I sell fish on a Friday spread out on a board,
The finest you'd find in the sea.
But best is me herrings, fine Dublin Bay herrings,
There's herrings for dinner and tea.
I have a son Mick, he's great on the flute,
He plays in the Longford Street Band,
It would do your heart good to see him march out,
On a Sunday for Dollymount Strand.
Chorus

In the Park on a Sunday I make quite a dash,
The neighbours look on with surprise,
With me Aberdeen shawl thrown over me head,
I dazzle the sight of their eyes.
At Patrick Street corner for sixty-four years,
I've stood and no one can deny,
That while I stood there, there's no one could dare,
To say black was the white of me eye.
Chorus

THE BOG DOWN IN THE VALLEY-O
CHORUS
O-ro the rattlin ' bog, the bog down in the valley-o
O-ro the rattlin ' bog, the bog down in the valley-o

And in that bog there was a tree, A rare tree, a rattlin' tree,
With the tree in the bog, the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now on that tree there was a limb, A rare limb, a rattlin' limb,
With a limb on the tree, and the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now on that limb there was a branch, A rare branch, a rattlin' branch,
With a branch on the limb, and the limb on the tree, The tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o

Now on that branch there was a twig, A rare twig, a rattlin' twig,
With a twig on the branch, and the branch on the limb,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o

Now on that twig there was a nest, A rare nest, a rattlin' nest,
With a nest on the twig, and the twig on the branch,
The branch on the limb, and the limb on the tree, The tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now in that nest there was an egg, A rare egg, a rattlin' egg,
With an egg in the nest, and the nest on the twig,
The twig on the branch, and the branch on the limb,
The limb on the tree, the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now in that egg there was a bird, A rare bird, a rattlin' bird,
With a bird in the egg, and the egg in the nest,
The nest on the twig, and the twig on the branch,
The branch on the limb, and the limb on the tree, The tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now on that bird there was a feather, A rare feather, a rattlin' feather,
With a feather on the bird, and the bird in the egg,
The egg in the nest, and the nest on the twig,
The twig on the branch, and the branch on the limb,
The limb on the tree, and the tree in the bog,
And the bog down in the valley-o.

Now on that feather there was a flea, A rare flea, a rattlin' flea,
With a flea on the feather, and the feather on the bird,
The bird in the egg, and the egg in the nest,
The nest on the twig, and the twig on the branch,
The branch on the limb, and the limb on the tree,
The tree in the bog, And the bog down in the valley-o.

BOLD O'DONOGHUE
Oh here I am from Paddys land a land of high renown.
I broke the hearts of all the girls from miles of Keady Town
And when they hear that I'm awa' they raise a hullaballoo
When they hear about the handsome land they call O'Donoghue.

CHORUS
For I'm the boy to please her and I'm the boy to tease her
I'm the boy to squeeze her and I'll tell you what I'll do,
I'll court her like an Irishman with me brogue and blarney too
With me rollik-in swollik-in gollik-in wollik-in bold O'Donoghue.

I wish me love was a red, red rose growin' on yon garden wall
And me to be a dew drop and upon her brow I'd fall,
Perhaps now she might think of me as a rather heavy dew,
No more she'd love the handsome lad the call O'Donoghue.
CHORUS

They say that Queen Victoria has a daughter fine and grand
Perhaps she'd take it into her head for to marry an Irishman
If I could only get the chance to have a word or two
Perhaps she'd take a notion in the bould O'Donoghue.
CHORUS

BOSTON BURGLAR
I was born and raised in Boston, a place you all know well
Brought up by honest parents, the truth to you I'll tell
Brought up by honest parents and raised most tenderly
Till I became a sporting blade at the age of twenty three

My character was taken and I was sent to jail
My parents sought to bail me out but found it all in vain
The jury found me guilty, the clerk , he wrote it down
Saying `John, my son, what have you done to be bound for Charlestown?'

There is a girl in Boston, a place you all know well
And if e'er I get my liberty, it's with her that I will dwell
If e'er I get my liberty, bad companions I will shun
The robbing of the National Bank and the drinking jugs of rum

Ye lads that are at liberty, now keep it while ye can
Don't roam the streets by night and day, or break the laws of man
For if you do, you'll surely rue the days that you were free
You'll serve your time mid grit and grime in the Royal Artillery