| If you ever go to Dublin town
|
| In a hundred years or so
|
| Inquire for me in Baggot street
|
| And what I was like to know
|
| O he was the queer one
|
| Fol dol the di do
|
| He was a queer one
|
| And I tell you
|
| My great-grandmother knew him well,
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| He asked her to come and call
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| On him in his flat and she giggled at the thought
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| Of a young girl’s lovely fall.
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| O he was dangerous,
|
| Fol dol the di do,
|
| He was dangerous,
|
| And I tell you
|
| On Pembroke Road look out for me ghost,
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| Dishevelled with shoes untied,
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| Playing through the railings with little children
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| Whose children have long since died.
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| O he was a nice man,
|
| Fol do the di do,
|
| He was a nice man
|
| And I tell you
|
| Go into a pub and listen well
|
| If my voice still echoes there,
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| Ask the men what their grandsires thought
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| And tell them to answer fair,
|
| O he was eccentric,
|
| Fol do the di do,
|
| He was eccentric
|
| And I tell you
|
| He had the knack of making men feel
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| As small as they really were
|
| Which meant as great as God had made them
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| But as males they disliked his air.
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| O he was a proud one,
|
| Fol do the di do,
|
| He was a proud one
|
| And I tell you
|
| If ever you go to Dublin town
|
| In a hundred years or so
|
| Sniff for my personality,
|
| Is it Vanity’s vapour now?
|
| O he was a vain one,
|
| Fol dol the di do,
|
| He was a vain one
|
| And I tell you
|
| I saw his name with a hundred more
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| In a book in the library,
|
| It said he had never fully achieved
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| His potentiality.
|
| O he was slothful,
|
| Fol do the di do,
|
| He was slothful
|
| And I tell you
|
| He knew that posterity had no use
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| For anything but the soul,
|
| The lines that speak the passionate heart,
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| The spirit that lives alone.
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| O he was a lone one,
|
| Fol do the di do
|
| O he was a lone one,
|
| And I tell you
|
| O he was a lone one,
|
| Fol do the di do
|
| Yet he lived happily
|
| And I tell you. |