| I walk through this city a stranger
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| In the land I can never call home
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| I curse the sad notion across me
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| In my search of my fortune I roam
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| I’m weary of working and drinking
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| My weeks wages left in the bar
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| And God it’s a shame
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| For to use a friend’s name
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| Just to beg for the price of a jar
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| I remember that bright April morning
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| When I left home to travel afar
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| But to work 'till you’re dead
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| For a room and a bed
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| It’s not the reason I left Mullingar
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| This London’s a city of heartbreak
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| On a Friday there’s friends by the score
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| But when the pay’s finished on Monday
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| A friend’s not a friend anymore
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| For the working day seems never ending
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| From the shovel and pick there’s no break
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| And when you’re not working, you’re spending
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| The fortune you left home to make
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| So those who come here to find fortune
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| And come home to tell us the tale
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| Each morning the broadway is crowded
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| With many the thousands who fail
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| So young men of Ireland take warning
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| In London you never will find
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| That gold at the end of the rainbow
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| For you might just have left it behind |