The Glasgow Barber

When first I sailed over from Belfast to Greenock,
My blood felt congealed, I was leaving the sod.
My heart swelled as big as the boat I sailed o'er on,
When the gaffer refused to give paddy a job.

I landed in Glasgow, inquired for Queen Street,
I called into a barber, he bid me sit down.
He placed me down square in the arms of the chair,
And he covered me o'er with his grandmother's gown.

Says he, "It's a shaving." Says I, "Are you raving!
It's the hair on the head I want cut in a row,
And before I'd be going, I'd have you be knowing
It's the style that we have in the County Mayo."

He placed a steel clinker above my eye winker.
You'd swear was the ramps of Moll Brannigan's fan.
He oiled it and sleeked it, he combed it and streaked it, 
And he oiled front and rear with his two little hands.

He says, "Irish Pat, you'll pay fourpence for that.
It's a cut that an Irishman seldom do know.
It's the ladies' conceit, and you will look neat,
When you land with your friends back in County Mayo."

"Bad luck to your soul if you think I'm a loony.
Oh hell to your soul, sure the hair was my own,
And before I'd make bargain with the barbers of Scotland,
I'd rather make bargain with the landlords at home."

He called in two bobbies to take Irish paddy
With hairs on their heads like large rucks of straw.
Says they, "ToramushaQ" Says I "Arragusha!"
It's a word that we use in the County Mayo.

Well they took to their batons, I took to my stick,
And the police and the barber I soon did knock down.
I left them a mark for to buy sticking plasters,
And I straight took my way to the west of the town.

When I looked in the glass, you'd have swore I was an ass.
My lugs stood so high and my head it hung low.
Bad luck to his tristles, his bells and steam whistles,
And hurrah for the girls in the County Mayo.