There's no great wisdom in the song I sing,
but I know enough to know this one thing:
a man's no man unless he
can work
and there's no work for a man in County Cork.
I kissed my mother and put on my coat,
I went to Dublin and got on the boat.
Now I know enough to know I'm
a fool,
for I ended up on the lump in Liverpool.
In a greasy cafe I buy my grub,
my friends I buy with a drink in a pub.
Like a pick and shovel I am bought
and sold,
I'm the subby's man and I am not my own.
I miss my family, but we're not in touch,
I pray too little and I drink too much.
My face is bold, but my
heart is cold,
and who will care for me when I am old?
I think the Irish are a cursed race,
I think they'll vanish and not leave a trace.
From east to west and from
pole to pole
they work on every man's land, but not their own.
