Oh, Mairín, a cuisle, how far did you go?
Ara, mother, a stóirín, would you give much to know?
I went roving the hills and I met with Tom Keogh
And he gave me some plums from the trees in Mayo.
Oh, Mairín, a cuisle, and you but eighteen,
To go roving the hills with that idle spailpeen,
If your father should hear it he'd make it a show,
And he'd root all the trees that grow in Mayo.
Ah, then, mother, a cuisle, and I but eighteen,
Sure you married my father and you scarcely sixteen,
And he's neither able to plough nor to sow,
Nor to drill the Sin Feiners like the slashing Tom Keogh.
Oh then, Oh, Mairín, a cuisle, there's a peeler in town
And he gets a big haul every month from the crown,
He would drill all the Sinn Feiners from here to Mayo,
He's the man for a girl, not the slashing Tom Keogh.
Oh,mother, a cuisle, speak of peelers no more,
For if Ireland has freedom,they'll get the back door,
They'll all be send down to the regions below
So we'll shout "Up Sinn Fein and the slashing Tom Keogh".
Ah, then Oh, Mairín, a cuisle, you are a big fool,
For Dillon is coming next month with Home Rule,
Dillon and Devlin will get all the show
And plenty of taxation on the head of Tom Keogh.
Ah,mother a stóirín, don't speak of Home Rule
For its left on the shelf like a three legged stool;
Dillon and Devlin can go where you know,
But we'll shout "Up Sinn Fein"like the slashing Tom Keogh.
Tune: Albert Healy or Leo Maguire.