One evenin’ of late as I happened to stray
To the Count Tipperary I straight made my way
To dig the potatoes and work by the day,
I hired with a Galbally Farmer.
I asked him how far we were bound for to go,
For the night it was dark and the northwind did blow,
My stomach was empty, my spirits were low,
For I’d got neither whiskey nor porter.
Well, I well recollect it was Michaelmas night
And to a fine supper he did me invite:
A cup of sour milk that would physic a snipe,
It would give you the trotting disorders.
The wet old potatoes would poison the cats,
And the barn where my bed was swarmin’ with rats!
It’s little I thought it would e’er be my lot
To lie in that hole until mornin’.
From what he had said to me I understood,
My bed in the barn it was not very good,
The mattress was made in the time of the flood,
And the blankets and sheets in proportion.
It was on this old miser I looked with a frown,
And the straw was brought out for to make my shake down.
I wished I had never seen Galbally town,
Nor the skies above Darby O’Leary.