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The Mountains of Mourne
Traditional. Scheduled for an upcoming Darby CD.
notes: "They don't wear tops to their dresses" only means that they wear
skirts and blouses.
Mountains of Mourne
(Percy French, 1896.)

   C             C7maj        F              Dm
Oh Mary, this London’s a wonderful sight
          G              G7             C         F  G
There’s people here workin’ by day and by night
      C             C7maj           F             Dm
They don’t sow potatoes, nor barley nor wheat
               G                  G7            C        F   C
But there’s gangs of them diggin’ for gold in the street
   G               G7                      C              Am
At least when I asked them that’s what I was told
  C              Am            G             G7
So I tried my hand at that diggin’ for gold
         C               C7maj            F                Dm
But for all that I’ve found here I’d much rather be
             G                  G7             C          F    C
Where the Mountains of Mourne roll down to the sea


You’ll remember young Peter O’Laughlin, of corse
He’s workin’ here now at the head of the force
I saw him today, I was crossin’ the strand
And he held up the traffic with one wave of his hand
And as we stood talkin’ of days that are gone
The whole population of London looked on
But despite all them powers, he’s wishful, like me
To be back where the mountains roll down to the sea

I believe when you wrote me a wish you expressed
As to how the young ladies of London are dressed
Well, if you’ll believe me, when asked to a ball
They don’t wear no tops to their dresses at all
I’ve seen it meself, and you just couldn’t tell
If they were bound for a ball or a bath
Don’t be startin’ them fashions now, Mary mo chroi
Where the Mountains of Mourne roll down to the sea

There’s beautiful girls here, now never you mind
With wonderful shapes nature never designed
Lovely complexions of roses and cream
But let me remark with regard to the same
That if at those roses you chance for to sip
The colors would all come away on your lip
So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waitin’ for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne roll down to the sea