Don't talk to me of Johnny Howard of him I do not wish to hear
My feelings on that fellow to you I already have made clear
It is not to discuss politics or politicians that ever bring me here
But to unwind and relax and enjoy a cold beer.
It's obvious that he has known a better day
The hopes that he had are now fading away
Of going home to Scotland his Homeland for to die
To the vale by the hill where he lived as a boy.
Memories come to me often from the long lost years ago
When I was close to my prime day of one I visually did know
Blue eyed, blond haired she looked lovely wonder now where might she be
And in her fifties is she happy the once Rose of Derrinagree?
The only one I love lives in Kanturk Town
With hair dark and wavy and eyes of nut brown
Less than thirty yards from where ceaseless waters flow
The murmuring waters of river Allow.
The good and the bad and the deaf and the blind
To make up this World it takes every kind
The people who only take and those who know how to share
It is a strange World the World out there.
Back in the sixties they were in their prime
But women quickly age and lose their bloom
And on sunday evenings they would dance till two
In the old Castle Ballroom in Macroom.
To some you may seem ordinary one more face in the crowd
But remember where you came from of your heritage feel proud
And if someone ask you where you come from do not feel ashamed to say
That you are from old Duhallow all of those many miles away.
I've always thought a king wore the royal ring and crown
But not Willie Corcoran the King in Millstreet Town
I've never seen him wear crown or royal ring
And yet to many he's known as the King.
On the second week of January I hear the shrike thrush sing
His flute like notes so pleasant to them have a familiar ring
And Spring is but a memory and Summer near her prime
And that birds sing out of Season happens all of the time.
In clump of grass by thick hedge on her eggs the pheasant lay
And the much more brightly coloured male cucks near all through the day
And the meadow pipit pipes his song as o'er the field he fly
And scent of blossom in the wind in May in Lisnaboy.