And twelve years ago I was digging the land,
With me brogues on me feet and a spade in me hand
Says I to myself, ‘What a pity to see
Such a fine strapping lad footing turf in Tralee’
To me too-ra-na-nya, to me too-ra-na-nya,
To me too-ra-na noo-ra-na noo-ra-na-nya.
So I buttered me brogues and shook hands with me spade,
And away to the fair like a dashing young blade
I met with a sergeant who asked me to ‘list,
‘Musha, sergeant a ghrá, stick the bob in me fist!
And the first thing they gave me they called it a gun,
With powder and shot and a place for me thumb
At first she spat fire and then she spat smoke,
And she gave me poor shoulder one helluva stroke.
And the next thing they gave me it was a red coat,
With a strap of fine leather to tie round me throat
They gave me a quare thing – I asked what was that,
They told me it was a cockade for me hat.
And then they marched us all down to the sea,
And aboard of a warship bound for the Crimea
With three sticks in the middle all covered with sheets,
And she walked on the water without any feet.
And at Balaclava we landed quite sound,
And cold, wet and hungry we lay on the ground
Next morning for action the bugle did call,
And we had a hot breakfast – powder and ball
And we fought at the Alma, likewise Inkermann,
But the Russians they whaled us at the Redan
In scaling the walls sure meself lost an eye,
And a big Russian bullet ran away with me thigh.
And they sent for the doctor who soon staunched me blood,
And they gave me an elegant leg made of wood
They gave me a medal and ten pence a day,
Contented with Sheelagh, I’d live on half pay.
And it’s often I thought of me mother at home,
And while I was with her I was maith go leor;
When the bullets did fly, lads, I did let them pass
I lay down in the ditch, awful feared to be shot.