| John Riley came form Galway town in the years of the Irish hunger
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| And he sailed away to America when the country was much younger
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| The place was strange and work was scarce and all he knew was farming
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| So he followed his other Irish friends to a job in the US Army
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| Adventure calls and some men run, and this is their sad story
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| Some get drunk on demon rum and some get drunk on glory
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| They marched down Texas way to the banks of the Rio Grande
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| They built a fort on the banks above to taunt old Santa Anna
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| They were treated bad, paid worse, and then the fighting started
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| The more they fought the less they thought of the damned old US Army
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| Adventure calls and some men run, and this is their sad story
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| Some get drunk on demon rum and some get drunk on glory
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| When the church bells rang on Sunday morn it set his soul a shiver
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| He saw the Senoritas washing their hair on the far side of the river
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| John Riley and two hundred more Irish mercenaries
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| Cast their lot, right or not, south of the Rio Grande
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| Adventure calls and some men run, and this is their sad story
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| Some get drunk on demon rum and some get drunk on glory
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| They fought bravely under the flag of the San Patricios
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| Till the Yankees soldiers beat them down at the battle of Churubusco
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| Then fifteen men were whipped like mules
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| And on the cheeks were hot iron branded
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| Made to dig the graves of fifty more, who a hanging fate had handed
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| Adventure calls and some men run, and this is their sad story
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| Some get drunk on demon rum and some get drunk on glory
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| John Riley stands and drinks alone at a bar in Vera Cruz
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| He wonders if it matters much if you win or if you lose
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| I’m a man who can’t go home, a wanderer, says he
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| A victim of some wanderlust and divided loyalty
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| Adventure calls and some men run, and this is their sad story
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| Some get drunk on demon rum and some get drunk on glory |