Allelu Mo Mhailin
Good neighbours dear, be cautious and court no man’s pounds or pence
Ambitious greedy men shun and tread the path of innocence
Dread crooked ways and cheating and be not like those hounds of hell
That prowl around Dungarvan which once upon my footsteps fell
Allelu mo mhailin, my little bag I treasured it
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin; a thousand times I measured it
Should you ever reach Dungarvan, that wretched hole of dole and sin
Be on your sharpest guard, man or the eyes out of your head they’ll pin
Since I left sweet Tipperary they eased me of my cherished load
And left me light and airy, a poor dark man upon the road
Allelu mo mhailin, no hole, no stitch, no rent in it
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin, my half-year’s rent was pent in it
A gay gold ring unbroken, a token to a fair maid
Which told of love unspoken to one whose hopes were long delayed
A pair of woollen hoseen close knitted without rib or seams
And a pound of weed well chosen such as smokers only taste in dreams
Allelu mo mhailin, without a hole or rent in it
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin and nothing mean or bad in it
Full oft in cosy corner we’d sit beside a winter fire
Nor envied prince or lord nor to kingly rank did we aspire
But twice they overhauled us, the dark police of aspect dire
Because they feared, mo chairdeas, you held the dreaded Fenian fire
Allelu mo mhailin, my bag and me, they plundered us
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin, my bag of bags, they sundered us
Yourself and me, mo stoirin, at every hour of night and day
Through road and lane and boreen without complaint we made our way
Till one sore day a car-man took us off the road
And faced us towards Dungarvan where mortal sin has firm abode
Allelu mo mhailin, no hole, no stitch, no rent in it
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin, my half-year’s rent was pent in it
My curse attend Dungarvan, her boats her boroughs and her fish
May every woe that mars man come dancing down upon her dish
For all the rogues behind you from Slaney’s banks to Shannon’s side
Are but poor scholars, mind you, to the rogues you’d meet in Abbeyside
Allelu mo mhailin, my little bag, I treasured it
‘twas stuffed from string to sailin; a thousand times I measured it
