| On a fine summer’s morning our horns they did blow,
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| To the green fields round Tassu where the huntsmen did go,
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| For to meet the bold sportsman from around Cady town,
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| None loved that sport better than the boys from May-down.
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| And when we arrived they were all standing there,
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| So we took to the green field in search of the hare.
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| We did not go far when someone gave cheer,
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| Over hills and high meadows the prey did appear.
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| When she got to the heather she tried them to shun
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| But our dogs never missed one inch where she’d run.
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| They kept well packed when going over the hill,
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| For the hounds had set out this sweet hare for to kill.
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| With our dogs all abreast and the big mountain hare,
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| And the sweet charming music it rang through the air,
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| Straight for the black bank for to try them once more,
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| But it was her last sight round the Hills of Greenmore.
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| And as we trailed on to where the hare she did lie,
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| She sprang to her feet for to bid them goodbye.
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| Their music it ceased, and a cry we could hear,
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| Saying bad luck to the ones brought ye May-down dogs here.
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| Last night as I lay quite content in the glen,
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| It was little I thought of the dogs or the men,
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| But when going home at the clear break of day,
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| I could hear the loud horn young Toner did play.
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| And now that I’m dying me sport it is done,
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| No more through the green fields on Cady I’ll run,
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| Nor feed in the glen on a cold winter’s night,
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| Or go home to my den when it’s breaking daylight.
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| I blame old McMahon for bringing Coyle here,
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| He’s been at the same caper for many’s the year.
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| Every Saturday and Sunday, he never give oer,
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| With a pack of strange dogs round the Hills of Greenmore. |