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McCormack and Richard Tauber are singing by the bed |
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There's a glass of punch below your feet and an angel at your head |
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There's devils on each side of you with bottles in their hands |
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You need one more drop of poison and you'll dream of foreign lands |
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When you pissed yourself in Frankfurt and got syph down in Cologne |
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And you heard the rattling death trains as you lay there all alone |
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Frank Ryan brought you whiskey in a brothel in Madrid |
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And you decked some fucking blackshirt who was cursing all the Yids |
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At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer |
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And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair |
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And in the Euston Tavern you screamed it was your shout |
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But they wouldn't give you service so you kicked the windows out |
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They took you out into the street and kicked you in the brains |
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So you walked back in through a bolted door and did it all again |
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At the sick bed of Cuchulainn we'll kneel and say a prayer |
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And the ghosts are rattling at the door and the devil's in the chair |
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You remember that foul evening when you heard the banshees howl |
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There was lazy drunken bastards singing Billy in the bowl |
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They took you up to midnight mass and left you in the lurch |
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So you dropped a button in the plate and spewed up in the church |
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Now you'll sing a song of liberty for blacks and paks and jocks |
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And they'll take you from this dump you're in and stick you in a box |
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Then they'll take you to Cloughprior and shove you in the ground |
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But you'll stick your head back out and shout "We'll have another round" |
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At the graveside of Cuchulainn we'll kneel around and pray |
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And God is in His heaven, and Billy's down by the bay |
