Tune: Rosin the Beau
Filk: Deirdre Muldomhnaigh
I was up to me arse in the muck, sir.
With a peat contract down in the bog
When me shovel it struck something hard sir
That I thought was a rock, or a lot.
‘Twas a box of the finest old oak, sir
‘Twas a foot long and four inches wide.
And not giving a damn for the fairies,
I just took a quick look inside.
Now I opened the lid of this box, sir,
And I swear that my story is true
‘Twas an ancient old Irish French letter,
A relic of Brian Boru.
‘Twas an ancient old Irish French letter,
‘Twas a foot long and made of elk hide;
With a little gold tag on its end sir
With his name, rank and stud fee inscribed.
Now I cast me mind back through the ages,
To the days of that horny old Celt,
With his wife lyin’ by on the bed, sir,
And he stood by the fire in his pelt.
And I thought that I heard Brian whisper,
As he stood in the fire’s rosy light,
“Well, ye’ve had your own way long enough, dear,
‘Tis the hairy side outside tonight!”