The Irish Rover
In the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and six
We set sail from the coal quay of Cork
We were sailin’ 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 oh, how the trade winds drove her
She had twenty-three masts and she stood several blasts
And we called her the Irish Rover
Fare-thee-well my pretty little girl; I must sail away
Fare-thee-well my pretty little girl; I must sail away
There was Barney McGee from the banks of the Lee
There was Hogan from County Tyrone
There was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff o’ work
And a chap from West Meath named Malone
There was Slugger O’Toole who was drunk as a rule
And fighting Bill Tracey from Dover
And your man, Mic McCaan from the banks of the Bhan
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover
We had sailed seven years when the measles broke out
And the ship lost its way in the fog
And the whole of the crew was reduced down to two
Meself and the captain’s old dog
Then the ship struck a rock, and oh, what a shock
We nearly tumbled over
We turned nine times around, and the poor old dog was drowned
I’m the last of the Irish Rover