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On the fourth of July eighteen hundred and six |
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We set sail from the sweet cove of Cork |
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We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks |
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For the grad city hall in New York |
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'T was a wonderful craft, she was rigged fore-and-aft |
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And oh, how the wild winds drove her |
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She got several blasts, she had twenty-seven masts |
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And they called her the Irish Rover |
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We had one million bales of the best Sligo rags |
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We had two million barrels of rum |
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We had three million sides of old blind horses hides |
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We had four million barrels of bones |
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We had five million hogs, six million dogs |
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Seven million barrels of porter |
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We had eight million bails of old nanny goats' tails |
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In the hold of the Irish Rover |
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There was awl Mickey Coote who playes hard on his flute |
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When the ladies lined up for his set |
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He would tootle with skill for each sparkling quadrille |
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Though the dancers were fluther'd and bet |
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With his sparse witty talk he was cock of the walk |
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As he rolled the dames under and over |
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And they knew at a glance when he took up his stance |
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They sailed in the Irish Rover |
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There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee |
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There was Hogan from County Tyrone |
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There was Jimmy McGurk who was scarred stiff of work |
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And a man from Westmeath called Malone |
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There was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a rule |
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And fighthing Bill Tracey from Dover |
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And your man Mick McCann from the banks of the Bann |
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Was the skipper of the Irish Rover |
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We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out |
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And the ship lost it's way in a fog |
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And that whale of the crew was reduced down to two |
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Just myself and the captain's old dog |
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Then the ship struck a rock, oh Lord, what a shock! |
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The bulkhead was turned right over |
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Turned nine times around, and the poor dog was drowned |
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I'm the last of the Irish Rover |
