Gentlemen it is me duty To inform you of one beauty Though I’d ask of you a favour Not to seek her for a while Though I own she is a creature Of character and feature No words can paint the picture Of the Queen of all Argyll
Chorus: And if you could have seen her there Boys, if you had just been there The swan was in her movements And the morning in her smile All the roses in the garden They bow and ask her pardon For not one could match the beauty Of the Queen of all Argyll
On the evening that I mentioned I passed with light intention Through a part of our dear country Known for beauty and for style Bein’ the place of noble thinkers Of scholars and great drinkers But above them all for splendour Shone the Queen of all Argyll
So my lads I needs must leave you My intentions no’ to grieve you Nor indeed would I deceive you Oh I’ll see you in a while I must find some way to gain her To court her and attain her I fear my heart’s in danger From the Queen of all Argyll
Chorus: Oh, there’re sober men aplenty And drunkards barely twenty There are men of over ninety That have never yet kissed a girl But give me a ramblin’ rover Frae Orkney down to Dover We will roam the country over And together we’ll face the world
I’ve roamed through all the nations In delight of all creations And enjoyed a wee sensation Where the company, it was kind And when partin’ was no pleasure I’ve drunk another measure To the good friends that we treasure For they always are in our mind
There’s many that feign enjoyment From merciless employment Their ambition was this deployment From the minute they left the school And they save and scrape and ponder While the rest go out and squander See the world and rove and wander And are happier as a rule
If you’re bent wi’ arthiritis Your bowels have got Colitis You’ve gallopin’ bollockitis And you’re thinkin’ it’s time you died If you been a man o’ action Though you’re lying there in traction You will get some satisfaction Thinkin’, “Jesus, at least I tried.”
When Fisher died in 2025, Amy Davenport told Thank Goodnes It's Folk about meeting him at a festival and upon hearing her sing in a pub and learning that she sang Witch of the West-mer-lands, he told her he'd written a sequel and would love her help bringing it into the world. They exchanged emails for the finishing touches of the song.
Long was the hour for the valiant knight That would ne’er be sick or slain. Lonely the bower in the candlelight With neither kith nor kin. Stormclouds over the full moon raced As he swung to the dapple grey. And man and horse to the westward faced On the eve of an All-Saints Day.
And lo, ‘neath the long green grassy mound Lie the bones of his noble steed. Gone to their graves are his brindled hounds, That were never matched for speed. Freed to the wind were his grey hawk’s wings, Never to be seen again. Lost were the songs that the young men sing As they ride o’er the plain.
The rowan shield burned on his breast As the old man rode again. Over the rocky kirkstan crest In the howling wind and rain. Weary the step of his garron’s stride As they slowly wended down To the banks of the winding waterside All under a paley moon
Cold was the crack of the raven’s cry That echoed from the fell. Fierce were the flames of the morning sky As the burning gates of Hell. Over his breast on the mantle white The rowan shield burned red. And, there in the rays of the dawning light, The berries burst and bled.
“Oh, where is your hawk and your brindled hounds?” Came the screeching houlet’s call. “Gone to the dank and the wormy ground, That will ay consume us all. Where is the maid of the jet black mare who held me fast in sleep?” “Under the long dark winding mere, She rests in the watery deep.”
He’s laid his hand on his hunting horn And, with his dying breath, Has blown a blast to the blazing morn That would route the Angel of Death. High in the cusp of the starry night He heard his grey hawk mew. As out of the mist came morning light, His ghostly grey hounds flew.
He has gathered a snatch of the goldenrod All withered in the wood And scattered it over the water’s brim Where his ghostly greyhounds stood. Flecked was the coat of the lithe black mare That rose from the watery deep. White were the locks of the maiden’s hair, And her brown eyes heavy with sleep.
“Waily, waily my noble lord, Who wakes me from my rest. There’s none can heal the wounds of time That lie bloody on your breast. Climb from your silvered saddle down And swing to my back astride. Gather your hawk and your brindled hounds And together we will ride.”
His saddlecloth was the velvet blue Trimmed round with a silver chain. He’s kissed her pale lips aince and twice, Aye, and three times round again. And over the lake with his hounds at heel And his good grey hawk in hand, Rode the knight of the blood-red rowan shield And the witch of the West-mer-land.
In the merry month of May from my home I started Left the girls of Tuam nearly broken-hearted Saluted Father dear, kissed my darlin’ Mother Drank a pint of beer my grief and tears to smother Then off to reap the corn, and leave where I was born I cut a stout blackthorn to banish ghost and goblin, In a bran’new pair of brogues I rattled o’er the bogs And frightened all the dogs on the rocky road to Dublin
Chorus: One, two, three, four five, hunt the hare and turn her Down the rocky roaad, and all the ways to Dublin Whack fol-lol-de-ra
In Mullingar that night I rested limbs so weary, Started by daylight next morning light and airy, Took a drop of the pure, to keep my heart from sinking, That’s an frishman’s cure, whene’er he’s on for drinking, To see the lasses smile, laughing all the while, At my curious style, ‘twould set your heart a-bubbling, They ax’d if I was hired, the wages I required, Till I was almost tired of the rocky road to Dublin.
In Dublin next arrived, I thought it such a pity, To be so soon deprived a view of that fine city, Then I took a stroll out among the quality, My bundle it was stole in a neat locality; Something crossed my mind, then I looked behind, No bundle could I find upon me stick a-wobblin’, Enquiring for the rogue, they said my Connaught brogue Wasn’t much in vogue on the rocky road to Dublin.
From there I got away my spirits never failing, Landed on the quay as the ship was sailing, Captain at me roared, said that no room had he, When I jumped aboard, a cabin found for Paddy Down among the pigs, I played some funny rigs Danced some hearty jigs, the water round me bubblin’ When off to Holyhead I wished myself was dead, Or better far, instead, on the rocky road to Dublin.
The bovs of Liverpool, when we safely landed, Called myself a fool, I could no longer stand it; Blood began to boil, temper I was losin’ Poor old Erin’s isle they began abusin’ “Hurrah my soul!” sez I, my shillelagh I let fly, Some Galway boys were by, saw I was a hobblin’, Then with a loud Hurrah, they joined in the affray, We quickly cleared the way, for the rocky road to Dublin.
Golden Hind Music says: "We admit to responsibility for The Rolling Mills of New Jersey. Matt McGinn wrote The Rolling Hills of the Border. This is not that."
Chorus: When I die, bury me low Where I can hear the petroleum flow A sweeter sound, I never did know The rolling mills of New Jersey
Down in Trenton, there is a bar The bums, they come from near and from far They come by truck, they come by car The lousy bums of New Jersey
Down in Hoboken, there will be Trash as far as the eye can see There’s trash for you, there’s trash for me The garbage dumps of New Jersey
When at last, I decided to roam, Far away from my home in Bayonne I sat down, and wrote this poem I wrote an ode to New Jersey
As I walked out one summer’s morn, I saw a scarecrow tied to a pole in a field of corn. His coat was black, his head was bare, And as the wind shook him the crows took into the air.
Chorus 1: Ah, but you’d lay me down and love me, Ah, but you’d lay me down and love me if you could. He’s only a bag of rags in an overall That the wind sways so the crows fly away and the corn can grow tall.
As I walked out one winter’s day, I saw an old man tied to a pole in a field of clay. His coat was gone, his head hung low, Until the wind flung it up to look, wrung its neck and let it go.
Chorus 2: How could you lay me down and love me? How could you lay me down and love me now? For you’re only a bag of rags in an overall That the wind blows and the kids throw stones at the thing on the pole.
As I walked out one fine spring day, I saw twelve jolly dons dressed up in blue and gold so gay. And to a pole they tied a man new born, And then the all sang, and the bells rung, as they sowed the corn.
Chorus 3: Now you can lay me down and love me, Now you can lay me down and love me if you will. You’re only a bag of rags in an overall But the wind blew and the sun shone too and you in the corn stood tall.
Nancy Kerr assembled this version from "less well-known versions of this archetypal gardener-as-lover song, based around a melody collected by Ella Mary Leather in Weobley, Herefordshire."
Jones cofounded the Industrial Workers of the World. "She worked as a teacher and dressmaker, but after her husband and four children all died of yellow fever in 1867 and her dress shop was destroyed in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, she began working as an organizer for the Knights of Labor and the United Mine Workers union. From 1897, at about 60 years of age, she was known as Mother Jones. In 1902 she was called "the most dangerous woman in America" for her success in organizing mine workers and their families against the mine owners. In 1903, to protest the lax enforcement of the child labor laws in the Pennsylvania mines and silk mills, she organized a children's march from Philadelphia to the home of President Theodore Roosevelt in New York."
Mother Jones is dead and gone she could no longer stay No one knew how old she was but she was often heard to say How she was born in 1830 in the sweet County Cork But she crossed the foaming billows till she landed in New York
Chorus: Mother Jones the miners’ angel must be treated with respect She’s an old-fashioned lady and you never would suspect That this gown and this bonnet would fill the rich man full of dread “She’s the most dangerous woman in America!”, they said
I see her marching down the street with her umbrella in her hand I can hear her still at Ludlow where the miners made a stand And she says: “John D. will you kindly tell to me How could you let your troopers lay them thirteen children down?”
In the horrors of West Virginia and in Colorado too Mother Jones and her miners they never could subdue And the men they fought and died in their tents and shanty towns And the women stood like a wall of steel that nothing could batter down
“And it’s now for the evils of child labour”, says she And the march of the mill children took place in nineteen three From Philadelphia to New York and she says: “I’m going to show Wall Street the flesh and blood they squeeze to make their dough”
When she died in 1930 O the sadness was profound And they laid her to rest in a Union burial ground And she lies in Mount Olive where the midnight wind it moans “Stand up for the Union!”, cries the spirit of Mother Jones
The rich man and his police and his pulpit and his press Got away with murder then they’d get away with it yet But we’ll form a mighty union and we won’t be overthrown And we never will forget the spirit of Mother Jones
Scattered like gold from Dunkeld to Aberfeldy Seasons unfold, oh that’s the things we love. Walk through the field in the frost of a winter morning; Nature revealed, that’s the things we love
Chorus: No, don’t ask us to take what we can give her, She lives inside us and we know her well. There’s no right reason to fear or to forgive her; It’s so easy, it’s just the things we love.
Standing alone on top of the Ben A Caly; Great rocking stone, that’s the things we love. Catching the eye of the owl in the early morning, Great buzzards cry ‘that’s the things we love’.
