PADDY THE SLITHERS

(Songs from the Glens - Moira O’Neill — Song Setting © Frank Callery)

(Words to an old Irish tune.)

Ochone! don't be tellin' me to fiddle or to play,
Ochone! 'tis a pity that I lived to see this day.
I'm fit to break my fiddle, or I'm fit to take an’ die —
Wirra ! Paddy the Slithers, could a woman make ye cry ?
I asked her for another dhrink, an' sure I'd played an hour,
Oh, who could think that music sweet would turn a woman sour ?

An' the company so pleasant sittin' back agin' the wall,
But me bould Biddy Brogan ups an' says before them all,
"I'll give ye no more. There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an not pay a farden."

I am Paddy the Slithers, an' my father was the same,
For I kep' his ould riddle an' I won his ould name,
That never said a false word or played a false note,
But the manners o' thon woman has me chokin' in the throat.
I had played her "Baltigoran," an' " The Pedlar wid his Pack,"
"The Wind that Shakes the Barley," an' " When Tony's Comin' Back."
Twas " The Rockin' o' the Cradle" I was goin' to give her next,
An' troth! if I had wasted that, 'tis worse I would be vext,

Wid her "Not another dhrop ! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye may dhrink, an' not pay a farden."
Good-bye, Biddy Brogan! now I'll tramp it through the rain,
Good-bye, Biddy Brogan ! for I'll never come again.
I wouldn't let my fiddle sweet be soundin' in your place,
You're the only one that ever brought the red into my face.
You'll be wantin' music badly for your weddin', yet to be,
An' faith ! ye may do wantin' for all ye'll get from me.

If the man you're coaxin' now could know the crossness of your mind,
He'd be trampin' through the rain wid me an’ lavin' you behind,
Wid your "Not another dhrop ! There' a well in the garden,
'Tis there ye can dhrink, an' not pay a farden."

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