Songs our Mothers sang

MacNamara's Band
Oh! Me name is MacNamara,
I’m the leader of the band.
Although we’re few in numbers
We’re the finest in the land.
We play at wakes and weddings
And at ev’ry fancy ball,
And when we play to funerals
We play the march from Saul.

Oh! The drums go bang
And the crystals clang,
And the horns they blaze away;
McCarthy pumps the old bassoon
While I the pipes do play;
And Hennessey Tennessee toothless the flute,
And the music is somethin’ grand;
A credit to old Ireland is MacNamara’s band.

Oh! My name is Uncle Yulius and
From Sweden I have come,
To play with MacNamara’s band
And beat the big bass drum,
And when I march along the street
The ladies think I’m grand
They shout “There’s Uncle-Yuliius playing with an Irish band.”

Oh! I wear a bunch of shamrocks
And a uniform of green,
And I’m the funniest looking Swede that you have ever seen.
There’s O’Brien’s and Ryan and Sheehans and Meehans
They come from Ireland, But by Yimminy
I’m the only Swede in MacNamara’s band.


Mary It's a Grand Old Name
For it is Mary, Mary, plain as any name can be;
But with propiety, society will say Marie;
But it was Mary, Mary, long before the fashions came,
And there is something there, that sounds so square,
It’s a grand old name.


Mickey, pretty Mickey,
With your hair a raven hue.
In your smiling so beguiling,
There a bit of Killarney,
Bit of the Blarney, too.
Child-hood in the wildwood,
Like a mountain flow’r you grew.
Pretty Mickey, pretty Mickey,
Can you blame anyone for falling in love with you?


Mother Machree
Sure, I love the dear silver
That shines in your hair,
And the brow that’s furrowed
And wrinkled with care,
I kiss the dear fingers,
So toil worn for me,
Oh, God bless you, and keep you
Mother Machree!


Muirsheen Durkin
In the days I went a-courtin’
I was never tired resorting,
To the ale-house and the play-house
And many a house beside,
But I told my brother Seamus
I’ll be off now and grow famous,
And before I come home again
I’ll roam the world wide.

Oh, I counted girls in Blarney,
In Kanturk and in Killarney,
In Passage and in Queenstown,
I mean the Cobh of Cork.
But I’m tired of all this pleasure,
So now I’ll take my leisure,
And the next time that you hear me
Be a letter from New York.

So goodbye Muirsheen Durkin,
Sure I’m sick and tired of workin’
No more I’ll dig the praties,
No longer I’ll be fooled:
But as sure as my name is Carney,
I’ll be off to Californee,
And instead of diggin’ praties,
I’ll be diggin lumps of gold.

Goodbye to all the boys at home
I’m sailing far across the foam,
To try and make my fortune
In far Amerikay.
For there’s gold and money plenty,
For the poor and for the gentry,
And when I’m back again
I never more will stray.


My Lovely Rose of Clare
Chorus: Oh my lovely rose of Clare, you’re the sweetest girl I know,
You’re the Queen of all the roses like the pretty flowers that grow,
You are the sunshine of my life so beautiful and fair,
And I will always love you, my lovely Rose of Clare.

Oh the sun it shines out like a jewel, on the lovely hills of Clare,
As I strolled along with my sweet lass, one evening at the fair,
Her eyes they shone like silver streams, her long and golden hair,
For I have won the heart of one, my lovely Rose of Clare.

As we walked down by the river bank, watched the Shannon flowing by,
And listened to the nightingale, singing songs for you and I,
And to say farewell to all you true and fair, For I have stolen the heart of one,
my lovely Rose of Clare.


My Singing Bird
I have seen the lark soar high at morn to sing up in the blue,
I have heard the blackbird pipe its song, the thrush and linnet too,
But none of them can sing so sweet, my singing bird as you.
Aah .... My singing bird as you.

If I could lure my singing bird from its own cosy nest,
If I could catch my singing bird I would warm it on my breast,
And on my heart my singing bird would sing itself to rest.
Aah ... Would sing itself to rest.


My Wild Irish Rose
My Wild Irish Rose,
The sweetest flower that grows.
You may search everywhere,
But none can compare with my wild Irish Rose.

My Wild Irish Rose,
The dearest flower that grows.
And someday for my sake,
She may let me take,
The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.

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