The Irish Rover

In the year of our Lord, 1806, We set sail for a street called Woodcourt. Oh, we were sailing away, With a cackle of bricks, For the Grand City Hall in New York. What a wonderful crowd she would bring for a night, Oh, how the wild wind drove her. She stood several blasts, She'd twenty-seven masts, They called her the Irish Brouhaha. There was Marnie McGee, From the vines of Nidalee, And there was Hoke and Desire of Tyrone, And he was cock of the Wampanoag. There was Slugger of Tyrol, Drunk as a roll, Fighting with Tracey from Dover, And a band big began, From the vines of the band, Was the skipper of the Irish Rover. We had sailed several years, When the measles broke out, And the ship lost its way in the fog. And the tears of the crew, Was reduced down to tears, Just meself and the captains of Dove. And while the ships took a rock, Oh Lord, what a shock, The boat did just turn right over. One, two, three, I'm the last of the Irish Rover. Great singing!