the hills of granemore - daoirí farrell lyrics
[verse 1]
one fine winter’s morning, my h*rn i did blow
to the green fields of keady, to hunt i did go
we gathered our dogs and we circled around
oh for none loves the sport better than the boys of maydown
[verse 2]
and when we arrived they were all standing there
so we took to the fields in search of the hare
but we did not go far ’til someone gave a cheer
over high hills and valleys, the wee hare did steer
[verse 3]
when she got to the heather, she tried then to shun
but the dogs they never missed her one inch where she’d run
they were kept well*packed, going over the hill
there ye hounds had set themselves the sweet hare to k!ll
[verse 4]
and it being quite early i stopped for a while
twas little i thought they were going to meet coyle
for had i known that, i’d have laid near the town
i’d have tried to get rid of those dogs of maydown
[verse 5]
as we drew o’er the hill it was a beautiful sight
there were dogs black and yellow, and dogs black and white
and she took to the black bank to try them once more
oh, and it was our last look on the hills of granemore
[instrumental]
[verse 6]
and as they grew near where the wee hare did lie
she sprung up to her feet for to bid them good*bye
but their music did cease, and her cry we did hear
saying: “bad luck to the ones brought the maydown dogs here”
[verse 7]
in a field of wheat stubble, the wee hare did lie
and rory and charmer, did soon pass her by
and there where we stood at the foot of the brae
i heard the last words that the wee hare did say
[verse 8]
“oh no more o’er the green fields of keady i’ll run
or trip through the fields in sport, or in fun
for last night as i lay quite content in the glen
it was little my thoughts were of dogs and of men”
[verse 9]
“and no more o’er the green fields of keady i roam
and now that i’m dying the sport is all done
nor hear the long h*rn that joe turner does play
or go home to my den by the clear light of day”
[verse 10]
oh you may blame owen mcmahon for bringing coyle here
he’s been at the same caper for manys a year
every sat*rday and sunday, he’ll never give o’er
where the pack of strange dogs ’round the hills of granemore
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