| was looking at some old photographs
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| Came across an old one
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| With my Granddad sitting on a horse and cart
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| I remember stories wild so wild they would always last
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| It was said he was a bruiser
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| Drinking barley from the glass
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| He was a hardy fighting drinking man
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| Working every bone till it breaks
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| No Dublin man could ever shake his hand
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| Breaking all the glass in the window pane
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| He could feel no more
|
| Behind that rugged mask this Man
|
| He loved the windy sand and shore
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| Tis time to take him home
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| Regrets he had a few if none
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| Working in the mines driving trucks through the dirt
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| On the cliffs no man could stand
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| Torchy Doyle was the name
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| They gave this long and lanky Irish Man
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| He was feared yet loved by most
|
| Only one could understand
|
| He was a hardy fighting drinking man
|
| Working every bone till it breaks
|
| No Dublin man could ever shake his hand
|
| Breaking all the glass in the window pane
|
| He could feel no more
|
| Behind that rugged mask this Man
|
| He loved the windy sand and shore
|
| Tis time to take him home
|
| His nose he broke so many times
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| All the fights and the battles in the fields
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| In the bed he was so kind
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| Buy a jar at the end they smile in case he change his mind
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| Torchy Doyle you are the man
|
| Only one could understand
|
| He was a hardy fighting drinking man
|
| Working every bone till it breaks
|
| No Dublin man could ever shake his hand
|
| Breaking all the glass in the window pane
|
| He could feel no more
|
| Behind that rugged mask this Man
|
| He loved the windy sand and shore
|
| Tis time to take him home
|
| He was a hardy fighting drinking man
|
| Working every bone till it breaks
|
| No Dublin man could ever shake his hand
|
| Breaking all the glass in the window pane
|
| He could feel no more
|
| Behind that rugged mask this Man
|
| He loved the windy sand and shore
|
| Tis time to take him home |