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Song Title
Waltz: "Star of the County Down"
Songs" "Star of the County Down", "Crooked Jack"
Crooked Jack (singing of Dick Gaughan)
Come Irishmen both young and stern
With adventure in your soul
There are better ways to spend your days
Than in working down a hole
I was tall and true, all of 6 foot 2
But they broke me across the back
By a name I'm known and it's not my own
They call me Crooked Jack
The ganger's blue-eyed boy was I
Big Jack could do no wrong
And the reason simply was because
I could work hard hours and long
I've seen men old before their time
Their faces drawn and gray
I never thought so soon would mine
Be lined the self same way
I've cursed the day that I went away
To work on the hydro dams
For sweat and tears or hopes and fears
Bound up in shuttering jams
They say that honest toil is good
For the spirit and the soul
But believe me boys it's for sweat and blood
That they want you down a hole
Star of the County Down
Near Banbridge town, in the County Down
One morning in July
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen
And she smiled as she passed me by.
She looked so sweet from her two white feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair
Such a coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there.
Chorus:
From Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay
And from Galway to Dublin town
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
That I met in the County Down.
As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling rare
And I said, says I, to a passerby
"who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?"
He smiled at me, and with pride says he,
"That's the gem of Ireland's crown.
She's young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann
She's the star of the County Down."
Chorus
I've travelled a bit, but never was hit
Since my roving career began
But fair and square I surrendered there
To the charms of young Rose McCann.
I'd a heart to let and no tenant yet
Did I meet with in shawl or gown
But in she went and I asked no rent
From the star of the County Down.
Chorus
At the crossroads fair I'll be surely there
And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes
And I'll try sheep's eyes, and deludhering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke
Though with rust my plow turns brown
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the star of the County Down.
Chorus
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