| Oh, who will plough the fields now
|
| And who will sow the corn
|
| And who will watch the sheep now
|
| And keep them from all harm
|
| And the stack that’s in the haggard
|
| Unthreshed it may remain
|
| Since Johnny, lovely Johnny
|
| Went to fight the king of Spain
|
| Oh, the girls of the Bang
|
| In sorrow may retire
|
| And the piper and his bellows
|
| May go home and blow the fire
|
| Since Johnny, lovely Johnny
|
| Went sailing o’er the main
|
| Along with other patriots
|
| To fight the king of Spain
|
| The boys will sorely miss him
|
| When Moneymore comes round
|
| And grieve that their bould captain
|
| Is nowhere to be found
|
| And the peelers must stand idle
|
| Against their will and grain
|
| Since the valiant boy who gave them work
|
| Now peels the king of Spain
|
| At wakes and hurling matches
|
| Your likes we’ll never see
|
| 'Till you come back again to us
|
| Mo storeen g mo chroi
|
| And won’t you trounce the buckeens
|
| Who show us much disdain
|
| Because our eyes are not as bright
|
| As those you meet in Spain
|
| Oh, if cruel fate should not permit
|
| Our Johnny to return
|
| His awful loss we Bantry girls
|
| Will never cease to mourn
|
| We’ll resign ourselves to our sad lot
|
| And die in grief and pain
|
| Since Johnny died for Ireland’s pride
|
| In the sunny land of Spain |