| If you ever go to Dublin town
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| In a hundred years or so
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| Inquire for me in Baggot street
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| And what I was like to know
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| O he was the queer one
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| Fol dol the di do
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| He was a queer one
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| And I tell you
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| My great-grandmother knew him well,
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| He asked her to come and call
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| On him in his flat and she giggled at the thought
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| Of a young girl’s lovely fall.
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| O he was dangerous,
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| Fol dol the di do,
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| He was dangerous,
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| And I tell you
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| On Pembroke Road look out for me ghost,
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| Dishevelled with shoes untied,
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| Playing through the railings with little children
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| Whose children have long since died.
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| O he was a nice man,
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| Fol do the di do,
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| He was a nice man
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| And I tell you
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| Go into a pub and listen well
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| If my voice still echoes there,
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| Ask the men what their grandsires thought
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| And tell them to answer fair,
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| O he was eccentric,
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| Fol do the di do,
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| He was eccentric
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| And I tell you
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| He had the knack of making men feel
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| As small as they really were
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| Which meant as great as God had made them
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| But as males they disliked his air.
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| O he was a proud one,
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| Fol do the di do,
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| He was a proud one
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| And I tell you
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| If ever you go to Dublin town
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| In a hundred years or so
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| Sniff for my personality,
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| Is it Vanity’s vapour now?
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| O he was a vain one,
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| Fol dol the di do,
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| He was a vain one
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| And I tell you
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| I saw his name with a hundred more
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| In a book in the library,
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| It said he had never fully achieved
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| His potentiality.
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| O he was slothful,
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| Fol do the di do,
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| He was slothful
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| And I tell you
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| He knew that posterity had no use
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| For anything but the soul,
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| The lines that speak the passionate heart,
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| The spirit that lives alone.
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| O he was a lone one,
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| Fol do the di do
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| O he was a lone one,
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| And I tell you
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| O he was a lone one,
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| Fol do the di do
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| Yet he lived happily
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| And I tell you. |