Drumhullogan's Bottom

From Thomas Moran of Mayo
Tune: Boulavogue, roughly

One summer's evening when at my leisure,
For sport and pleasure I being bent for fun.
I ranged the fields and the mossy hills
Where the pidgeon yields to my dog and gun.

The charms of nature they were engaging,
The grouse and pheasant on whirr and wing.
Down by yon bramble where I do ramble,
Where the blackbirds warble and the thrushes sing.

My heart increasing with animation,
In perambulation I took my way.
All seemed invited till I was excited
By those bloody vipers that in ambush lay.

Those lowlife coolies they call the police,
They lay before me like serpents keen.
With preparation, in combination,
To have me taken they did all agree.

When they heard me shooting, sure they came crouching.
To take me poaching was their desire.
They are worse than Pharoah or cruel Nero,
They ran like beagles through mud and mire.

But all their plotting and schemes were rotten.
In Drumhollogan's bottom they in ambush lay.
As I was loading after exploding,
They pounced upon me like wolves of prey.

With a voice like thunder which made me wonder,
They cried, "Surrender in the Queen's name
Give up your arms without alarm."
To seize my darling, it was their aim.

But I told him plainly for to go easy,
And not to tease me about their queen. 
I being a stranger to fear or danger,
And a son of Erin that adores the Green.

All this enraged them, for to a-seize me
They cried you papist we'll make you rue.
It was over hedges and rugged ridges,
Through swamps and sedges they did me pursue.

It was to my heels and through the fields,
With yells and squeals they did me surround.
With eyes like eagles and cries like beagles,
They were not able for to run me down.

For I being light airy, brisk as a fairy,
I did not care about this dirty clan. 
I'll give them light bail or escort to jail,
Or perhaps sail over from old Ireland.

When I've gained my liberty throughout this country
In spite of bigotry and tyrants' laws,
I can dance and sing, make the taverns ring,
and a shilling spend with my country boys.

There are four disorders upon our borders,
Our patron saint he forgot to cure.
That's cruel landlords, likewise informers,
The cholera morbis, and policeman.