The Last of the Irish Rover

In the year of Our Lord, Eighteen-Hundred and Six,

We set sail from the cold bay of Cork.

We were sailing away with a cargo of bricks for the grand city hall in New York.

We'd an elegant craft, she was rigged fore and aft,

And Lord!, how the trade winds drove her,

We had twenty-three masts, and she stood several blasts,

And they called her the Irish Rover.

There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee, there was Hogan from county Tyrone,

There was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff of work,

And a chap from West Meath named Malone.

There was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a rule, and fighting Bill Tracy from Dover.

And your man Mick McCann from the banks of the Bann was the skipper of the Irish Rover.

We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags, we had two million barrells of stone,

We had three million bales of old nanny goat's tails, we had four million barrels of stone,

We had five million hogs, and six million dogs, and seven milliion barrels of porter,

We had eight million sides of blind

Horse's hides in the hold of the Irish Rover.

We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out, and our ship lost its way in the fog,

And the whole of the crew was reduced down to two,

'Twas meself and the captain's old dog.

Then the ship struck a rock, Oh Lord!, what a shock, we nearly tumbled over.

Turned nine times around, and the poor old dog was drowned.

I'm the last of the Irish Rover.