| One fine winter’s morn my horn I did blow
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| To the green fields of Keady for hours we did go
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| We covered our dogs and we searched all the way
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| For none loves this sport better than the boys in the Dale
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| And when we are rising we’re all standing there
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| We sit up by the fields, boys, in search of the hare
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| We didn’t get far till someone gave the cheer
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| Over high hills and valleys this sweet puss did steer
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| As we flew o’er the hills, 'twas a beautiful sight
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| There was dogs black and yellow, there was dogs black and bright
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| Now she took to the black bank for to try them once more
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| Oh it was her last ride o’er the hills of Greenmore
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| In the field fleet stubble this pussy die lie
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| And in growing chary they did pass her by
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| And there well we stood at the top of the brae
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| We heard the last words that this sweet puss did say:
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| «No more o’er the green fields of Keady I’ll roam
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| In touch of the fields, boys, in sporting and fun
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| Or hear the long horn that your toner does play
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| I’ll go home to my den by the clear light of day"
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| You may blame our right man for killing the hare
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| For he said his o.k. |
| first this many a year
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| On saturday and sunday he never gives o’er
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| With a pack of strange dogs round the hills of Greenmore |