Traditional Dublin songs

The Cruise of the Calabar

Come all ye dry-land sailors bold and listen to my song.

It’s only 40 verses long and I won’t detain you long.

‘Tis all about the adventures of a bold young Irish Tar

Who sailed as a man before the mast on the good ship Calabar.

Now the captain was a strappin youth his height was four foot-two

His nose was red and his eyes was black arid his hair was a Prussian blue.

He wore a leather medal that he won in the Crimee war

And his wife was passenger, mate and cook on the good ship Calabar.

Well we sailed away with a favouring breeze, the weather was sublime

But just in the straits of Rialto Bridge where you can’t pass two at a time

Another craft ran into us which gave us a serious check

It stove in the starboard paddle-wheel box and destroyed the hurricane deck.

Now when huggin’ the shore of Inchicore, very dangerous part

We ran aground on a lump of coal that wasn’t marked on the chart,

And to save ourselves from sinking and to save each precious life

We threw the main deck overboard along with the captain’s wife.

Then all became confusion while the stormy winds did blow

The bo’sun slipped on an orange peel and fell into the hold below.

The captain cried “‘Tis a pirate’s rig and on us she does gain

And the next time I sail for Clondal kin boys, I’ll bloody sure go by train!”

So we got our ammunition out for to meet the coming foe

Our cutlasses and boarding pikes and Gatlin’ guns also,

“Put on full steam,” the captain cried, “For we are sorely pressed”

But the engineer from the bank replied “The oul’ horse is doing his best.”

Oh thick and fast the heroes fell, in torrents the blood was spilt

Great numbers were falling before they were hit to make sure that they wouldn’t be kilt.

And at last when the pirate surrendered her flat, the crew being all on their backs

We found that she was a sister ship with a cargo of cobblers’ wax.

Now the ship is in the marine stores now and the crew in the county jail

And I’m the only survivor left to tell of the terrible tale

But if I could release that ship I’d sail her off afar

And an Admirable be of the bloomin’ fleet on the fighting Calabar.

The Finding of Moses

Zozimus (Michael Moran, 1794-1846)

In Aygypt’s land, contagious to the Nile,

The early Pharaoh’s daughter went to bathe in style.

She took a dip, and coming in to land,

For to dry her Royal pelt she ran along the strand.

A bulrush tripped her, whereupon she saw

The little babby Moses in a wad of straw.

She picked him up and said in accent mild

Tarranation Jayzus girls, which iv yiz owns the child

She took him up and she gave a little grin

For she and Moses were standing in their skin,

“Bejayzus now” says she “It was someone very rude

Left a little baby by the river in his nude.”

She took him to the Pharaoh sitting on the throne,

“Da,” says she, “Will you give the boy a home?”

“Bedad,” says he, “Sure I’ve often brought in worse.

Go my darlin’ daughter and get the child a nurse.”

An oul’ blackamore woman among the crew

Cried out “You royal savage, what’s that to do with you?

Your royal ladies is too meek and mild

To beget dishorestly this darling little child.”

“Ah then,” says Pharoah, “I’ll search every nook

From the Phoenix Park down to Donnybrook

And when I catch hoult of the bastard’s father

I will kick him from the Nile down to the Dodder.”

They sent a bellman to the Market Square

To see if he could find a skivvy there.

But the only young one that the man could find.

Was the very same young one that left the child behind.

She came up to Pharoah, a stranger, mareyah,

Never lettin’ on that she was the babby’s ma.

And so young Moses got his mammy hack

Shows that coincidence is enough to crack. **

Ye Men of Sweet Liberties**

Zozimus.

Oh ye men of sweet Liberties Hall,

And ye women all round the Coombe

On ye weavers we must call

To sustain ev’ry shuttle and loom

Bring your silks and your satins and tweeds

And your tabinets all in their prime

Oh bring them forth perfect with speed

As you did in our parliament’s time.

Let us sing of the Coombe and each street

Long before the vile Union was known.

When the lords and the nobles did meet

And around us a glory had thrown.

Then high were Newmarket and Court

The Chambers, The Poddle, The Manor

Where thousands each day did resort

Placing trade on the Liberties banner.

Sing Brown Street and Sweet Warrenmount

Faddle Alley and then me oul Blackpits

Which hear from me their full account

And where I have made my best hits.

There is Cork Street and Mill Street and John Street

With their various alleys and lanes

With Marrowbone Lane ever sweet

Where strong water got ever more reigns.

Sing the streets of Ardee, Meath and Dean,

Thomas, Francis and dear Ashe of old

With her chapels and schools which retain

Oh a spirit unbroken and bold.

Then up with the fringes once more

And let Erin have justice and joys

Free trade and home rule restore

And the rights of the Liberty boys.

Finnegan’s Wake

Tim Finnegan lived in Watling Street,

A gentleman Irish mighty odd

He had a tongue both rich and sweet

And to rise in the world he carried a hod.

Now Tim had a sort of tippling way

With a love of the liquor poor Tim was born,

And to help him on his work each day

He’d a drop of the craythur ev’ry morn’.

Whack fol the da now dance to your partner

Round the floor your trotters shake

Wasn’t it the truth I told you?

Lots of fun at Finnegan’s Wake.

One morning Tim was rather full

His head felt heavy which made him shake

He fell from the ladder and he broke his skull

So they carried him home, his corpse to wake.

They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet

And laid him out upon the bed

With a gallon of whiskey at his feet

And a barrel of porter at his head.

Chorus

His friends assembled at the wake

And Mrs Finnegan called for lunch

First they brought in tay and cakes

Then pipes, tobaccos and whiskey punch.

Miss Biddy O’Brien began to cry

“Such a neat clean corpse did you ever see?

Yerra Tim avourneen, why did you die?”

“Ah hold your tongue!” says Paddy Magee.

Chorus

Then Biddy O’Connor took up the moan,

“Oh Biddy,” says she, “You’re wrong, I’m sure.”

But Biddy gave her a belt in the gob

And left her sprawling on the floor,

Oh then the mighty war did rage,

‘Twas woman to woman and man to man

Shillelagh law did all engage

And a row and a ruction soon began.

Chorus

Then Micky Maloney ducked his head

When a naggin of whiskey flew at him.

It missed him, falling on the bed.

The liquor splattered over Tim.

Bedad he revives and see how he rises!

Finnegan rising from the bed!

Says “Fling your whiskey round like blazes

T’ainm an diabhail*, do you think I’m dead?”

Chorus

• “Name of the devil. **

The Ragman’s Ball**

Come pay attention for a while,

My good friends one and all,

And I’ll sing to you a verse or two

About a famous ball.

Now this ball was given by some friends,

Who lived down in Ashe Street

In a certain house in the Liberties

Where the Ragmen used to meet.

Well the names were called at seven o’clock

And every man was on the spot

And to show respect to the management

Every ragman brought his mot.

Now I must admit that I brought mine

At twenty-five minutes to eight

And the first to stand up was Kieran Grace

For to tell me that I was late.

Then up jumps ‘lumpy Sudelum,

And he says; “I think somehow

By the way yis are going on tonight

Yis are looking for a row.

Now look at here Grace if you want your face

You’d better not shout or bawl

There’s a lot of hard chaws to be here tonight

To respect the Ragman’s Ball.”

Then we all set down some fish and chips,

And every man was there.

Oh and at the place of honour

Billy Boland took the chair.

Well he swiped the chair and sold it to

An oul one in Carmen Hall

And he danced on the face of Kieran Grace

The night of the Ragman’s Ball.

Oh! says my one: “You’re a quare one now

And Billy, you’re hard to beat,”

Oh! when up jumps Liza Boland

And she told her to hould her prate;

But my one made a clout at her

And she missed her and struck the wall

And the two of them went in the ambulance

The night of the Ragman’s Ball.

Now to make the thing a swell affair

We brought friends quite a few;

Oh! we brought up Blind Gort Whelan

And Big Dan Kenny too.

And the gallant Jack Tar

Smoked his cigar

And he: slipped coming through the hall

And he lost a new bag and all his swag

The night of the Ragman’s Ball.

Now to keep the house alive, my boys,

We brought musicians too.

Oh! we brought up Tommy Reynolds

And his old tin whistle too,

Well he played that night with all his might

Till coming on to dawn

But we couldn’t find any to dance with Dan Kenny

The night of the Ragman’s Ball.

Now for eating we had plenty there

As much as we could hold.

We drank Brady’s loop-line porter

Until round the floor we rolled,

In the midst of the confusion

Someone shouted for a song

When up jumps oul’ Dunlavin and sings

“Keep rolling your barrel along.”

Then we all sat down to some ham parings

When everything was quiet

And for broken noses I must say

We had a lovely night.

Black eyes they were in great demand

Not to mention spilt heads and all

So if anyone wants to commit suicide

Let them come to the Ragman’s Ball. **

The Twangman**

Come listen to my story,

‘Tis about a nice young man.

When the militia wasn’t wanting him

He dealt in hawking twang.

He loved a lovely maiden,

As fair as any minge,

And she kept a treacle depot

One side of the Carlisle Bridge!

Now another one came courting her

And his name was Micky the Bags

He was a commercial traveller

And he dealt in bones and rags.

Well he took her out to Sandymount

For to see the waters roll

And he stole the heart of the twangman’s mot,

Playing billy in the bowl,

Now when the twangman heard of this

He flew into a terrible rage,

And he swore by the contents of his twangcart

On him he’d have revenge.

So he lay in wait near James’s Gate

And when the poor oul’ Bags came up

With his twangknife sure he took the life

Of the poor out gatheremup.

And it’s now yis have heard my story

And I hope yis’ll be good men

And not go chasing the twangman’s mot

Or any other out hen

For she’ll leave you without a brass farthing,

Not even your oul sack of rags

And you’ll end up in the gutter there

Like poor out Micky the Bags. **

The Spanish Lady**

As I went out through Dublin city

At the hour of twelve at night

Who should I see but a Spanish lady,

Washing her feet in the candlelight.

First she washed them, then she dried them,

Over a fire of angry coals.

In all my life I ne’er did see

A maid so sweet about the soles

Whack fol the toor a loor a laddy,

Whack fol the toor a loor a lay.

Whack fol the toor a laddy,

Whack fol the toor a lay.

I stopped to look but the watchman passed,

Says he: ‘Young fellow the night is late

Along with you home or I will wrestle you

Straight through the Bridewell gate.”

I threw a look at the Spanlish lady

Hot as the fire of angry coals

In all my life I ne’er did see

Such a maid so neat about the soles.

Chorus

As I walked back through Dublin City,

As the dawn of day was o’er,

Who should I see but the Spanish lady

When I was weary and footsore.

She had a heart so filled with loving

And her lover she longed to share

In all my life I never did meet

With a maid who had so much to share.

Chorus

Now she’s no mot for a puddle swaddy

With her ivory comb and her mantle so fine,

But she’d make a wife for the Provost Marshall

Drunk on brandy and claret wine.

I got a look from the Spanish lady

Hot as a fire of angry coals

In all my life U ne’er did meet

With a maid so neat about the soles.

Chorus

I’ve wandered north and I’ve wandered south

By Stoneybatter and Patrick’s Close

Up and around by the Gloucester Diamond

And back by Napper Tandy’s house.

Old age has laid her hand upon me

Cold as a fire of ashy coals

But where is the lonely Spanish lady

Neat and sweet about the soles?

Chorus

As I was leaving Dublin City

On that morning sad of heart

Lonely was I for the Spanish lady

Now that forever we must part

But still I always will remember

All the hours we did enjoy

But there she left me sad at parting

Gone forever was my joy.

Chorus

The Dublin Jack of All Trades

Oh! I am a roving sporting blade,

They call me Jack of All Trades.

I always place my chief delight

In courting pretty fair maids.

So when in Dublin I arrived

To try for a situation,

I always heard them say it was

The pride of all the nation.

I’m a roving Jack of many a trade,

Of every trade and all trades.

And if you wish to know my name

They call me Jack of All Trades.

Oh! On George’s Quay I first began

And there became a porter.

Me and my master soon fell out

Which cut my acquaintance shorter.

In Sackville Street a pastry cook,

In James’s Street a baker,

In Cook Street I did coffins make,

In Eustace Street a preacher.

Chorus

And in Baggot Street I drove a cab

And there was well requited.

In Francis Street had lodging beds

To entertain all strangers.

For Dublin is of high renown,

Or I am much mistaken

In Kevin Street, I do declare,

Sold butter, eggs and bacon,

Chorus

And in Golden Lane I sold oul’ shoes,

In Meath Street was a grinder,

In Barrack Street I lost my wife

And I’m glad I ne’er could find her.

In Mary’s Lane I’ve dyed old clothes

Of which I’ve often boasted,

In that noted place, Exchequer Street

Sold mutton ready roasted.

Chorus

And in Temple Bar I’ve dressed old hats,

In Thomas Street a sawyer.

And in Pill Lane I sold a plate.

In Green Street an honest lawyer.

In Plunkett Street I sold cast clothes,

In Bride’s Alley a broker.

In Charles’ Street I had a shop

Sold shovel, tongs and poker.

Chorus

In College Green a banker was,

In Smithfield a drover.

In Britain Street a waiter and

In George’s Street a glover.

On Ormond Quay I sold old books,

In King Street a nailer.

In Townsend Street a carpenter,

And in Ringsend a sailor.

Chorus

In Cole’s Lane a jobbing butcher,

In Dame Street a tailor

In Moore Street a chandler,

And on the Coombe a weaver.

In Church Street I sold oul’ ropes,

On Redmond’s Hill a draper.

In Mary Street sold ‘bacco pipes,

In Bishop Street a Quaker.

Chorus

In Peter Street I was a quack,

In Greek Street a grainer.

On the harbour I did carry, sacks.

In Werber Street a glazier.

In Mud Island was a dairy boy,

Where I became a scooper.

In Capel Street a Barber’s Clerk,

In Abbey Street a cooper.

Chorus

In Liffey Street had furniture

With fleas and bugs I sold it,

And at the bank a big placard

I often stood to hold it.

In New Street I sold hay and straw,

In Spittalflelds made bacon.

In Fishamble Street was at the grand

Old trade of basket-making.

Chorus

In Summerhill a coach-maker,

In Denzil Street a gilder.

In Cork Street was a tanner,

And in Brunswick Street a builder.

In High Street I sold hosiery,

In Patrick Street sold all blades.

So if you wish to know my narne

They call me Jack of All Trades.

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