THE MAN THAT SHOT MY DOG

By and from Michael Quinn

[The singer’s introduction:]

One of the loveliest places in Ireland -- people long ago thought that Connemara and Killarney were the loveliest places
And they lately discover that the place I come from in Mullaghban in Armagh is the loveliest.
And I would be asked to asked to sing this song
And it's not a good enough song for the celebrity that we're among and I'm glad to be   
But I won't be able to go visit youse in your country because a man in his seventies is not able to do it so why don=t you all come to visit me in my country even if youse all come at the one time 
But this lovely part of the country that I live in everyone is coming to build a bungalow 
They can't come to stay 
They go back home 
And there came a man out from the town and brought with him a lovely big black labrador bitch 
And I say I went up the mountain, 
We go up the mountain and we take the car as far as we are able 
And I have ladies in the car 
And they're always complaining about the smell of the dog in the car   
But one day he paid a visit over to the man that owns the labrador 
And whatever was going on he liked her very much 
And he went back again and the man didn't appreciate it 
And he took out the gun and he put two shots in my lovely dog 
And he didn't die but he was very ill for a long time and I was very cross 
And I rolled up the sleeves and my wife said "Where are you going?"
"I'm going to thrash the man that shot my dog."
"Well," she says, "A man who is in his seventies isn't going to do any thrashing." 
So I thought: there were bards in south Armagh long ago and wrote great songs 
Now I wasn't a poet but it's wonderful what badness can do for a man 
I took out the pen and it was the dog wrote this song and it just tells the story
Some of the language isn't the best 
 
I was born a collie sheep dog with a white rim round my neck
And for nine days my eyes were closed and I couldn't see a speck
I had four lovely sisters, me being the only boy
And for six weeks we played around, my mother's pride and joy
 
Till a gentleman from Mullaghbawn took me a liking to
And he held me in his arms, the master and his youth
And he put me in the motorcar and we started for the road
And in less than twenty minutes I was in my new abode
 
Now the first thing that my new family did was look for me a name
They called me this and they called me that but it sounded all the same
Till my master he came round the house and this to me he said
"Consider now yourself a dog and so your name is Ned."
 
Now my one great distinction was I had a bumpy tail
And I wagged it for my master as we walked our hill and dale
We rounded sheep and cattle and sometimes the nanny goat
And my master often threatened that he'd cut my flaming throat
 
And the months went by and I grew up and learned to do my chores
I growled at postmen and soldiers and likewise the man next door
They loved to see me working and they said I was treat
And before I got into the car I'd always wash my feet
 
But sometimes dogs grows lonesome and I longed to have a pal
I met a great big labrador and she said her name was Sal
She said that she was lonesome too and she had a pedigree
I said that ain't a problem, Sal, you just leave that to me
 
Her master overheard our talk and that night with her I slept 
We didn't use protection so across the fence he lept
Saying you bumpy-tailed black so-and-so from way out in Conway Park
I'll stop your gallavanting around my house after dark
 
His gun up to his shoulder a careful aim he took
And the noise that then came out of it, the very ground it shook
And I felt my hide a burning as the bullets tore me hide
And the woman says he shot that dog that belongs to Michael Quinn ---
 
[When my master he did hear that shot and it happened just by luck
He stepped up to the gunman and he says you newry knuc
 . . .
Saying that s the medicine I=d give to any man would shoot my dog.]
 
Well he brought he to my kennel and on the straw I lay
And I hear the neighbours asking will our Ned live or die
And he's using awful language as he sits there on the log
And here are some of the things he says of the man that shot his dog
 
May his scabs like crabs grow up in flabs around everything he feels
And snubbers flow down to his toes and hacks come on his heels
May his hair fall out, may his woman pout, may his farts smell like a hog
And bad luck fall on that Newry knuc, the man that shot my dog 
 
May piles surround his big backside, his corn die on the stalk
And every time that he lifts his gun, that his stomach may balk
And as he goes a-hunting over heather hill or bog
May the diarrhea escape with its might, from the man that shot my dog
 
Now to conclude and finish I am on all fours once more
But I feel that urge coming over me that did one day before
So I'll slip out some dark evening in the mist or the thick fog
And leave another half a dozen pups for the man that shot me dog.