In the Year of our Lord Eighteen Hundred and SixWe set sail from the cold cove of CorkWe were sailing away with a cargo of bricksFor the grand City Hall in New YorkShe was a wonderful craft, she was rigged 'fore and aftAnd lord how the trade winds drove herShe had twenty-three masts, and she stood several blastsAnd they called her the Irish RoverThere was Barney McGee from the banks of the LeeThere was Hogan from County TyroneThere was Johnny McGurk who was scared stiff of workAnd a man from Westmeath called MaloneThere was Slugger O'Toole who was drunk as a ruleAnd fighting Bill Tracy from DoverAnd your man Mick McCann, from the banks of the BannWas the skipper on the Irish RoverWe had one million bags of the best Sligo ragsWe had two million barrels of boneWe had three million bales of old nanny goats' tailsWe had four million barrels of stoneWe had five million hogs and six million dogsAnd seven million barrels of porterWe had eight million sides of old blind horse's hidesIn the hold of the Irish RoverWe had sailed seven years when the measles broke outAnd our ship lost her way in the fogAnd the whole of the crew was reduced down to two'Twas meself and the captain's old dogThen the ship struck a rock; oh Lord, what a shockWe nearly tumbled overTurned nine times around and the poor old dog was drownedNow I'm the last of the Irish Rover
