You lads and lassies gay, and you with sporting faces
If you live unto next year you will ne'er forget the races.
Oh, races we will have without bridle whip or saddle,
And none of you will say that it's all a fiddle. (fiddle)


Oh, Filemore you're the place for merry sport and singing,
And the chief among them all is the charming beagle hunting.

A drag hunt we will have, swift horses and fine riders,
Gentlemen there will be for to weild their swords and sabres,
If a single man should fall we will all feel very sorry,
For a sign it is most sure, that year he will not marry.

Around the courses we'll go to see who'll rouse the echo,
From Carhan woods above to the mountains of Kimego;
Kenmare will hear the shock, and Dingle will awaken,
Killorglin will resound and Valentia will be shaken.

Comely struck it first, there was Rattler Thade and Weaver,
Small Trumen from Tureen, and Tanner was their leader;
Juno Coffey of Coars, likewise Juno Foley,
Juno Lynch indeed were three Junos full of glory.

And now the hunt is over, the sun is nearly setting,
Into the town we'll go as tired our limbs are getting;
In tap rooms we will sit, call for porter ale and whiskey,
Then homeward we will go with spirits light and frisky.

Transcribed June 24, 2000 by T. M. Carlsen
Notes from transcriber: punctuation and spelling as in original.