The Mountains Of Mourne

Oh, Mary, this London's a wonderful sight With people here working by day and by night They don't sow potatoes, nor barley nor wheat But there' gangs of them digging for gold in the streets At least when I asked them that's what I was told So I just took a hand at this digging for gold But for all that I found there I might as well be Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea I believe that when writing a wish you'd expressed As to how the fine ladies of London were dressed Well, if you believe me, when asked to a ball Sure they don't wear no tops to their dresses at all Oh, I've seen them myself and you could not in truth Tell if they were bound for a ball or a bath Don't be starting them fashions now, Mary Macree Where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea You remember young Peter O'Loughlin, of course Well he's over here at the head of the force I saw him one day as he stood on the Strand And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand And as we were talking' of days that are gone The whole town of London stood there to look on But for all his great powers he's wishful like me To be back where the dark Mourne sweeps down to the sea There's beautiful girls here, oh, never you mind With beautiful shapes nature never designed And lovely complexions of roses and cream But O'Loughlin remarked with regard to the same That if at those roses you venture to sip The colours might all come away on your lip So I'll wait for the wild rose that's waiting' for me Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea