Mickey MacConnell
Singer / Songwriter



Only Our Rivers




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The Man who Drank the Farm

My Uncle Peter rolled his eyes and gave out a mighty roar.
He grasped his chest, he gasped for breath and he fell dead on the floor.
Then later, when the will was read, the family was alarmed
For Uncle Peter left to me his house and farm of land.

Now I was never into farming much, to the soil I don’t belong.
I much prefer the public house with the wimmin, wine and song.
That’s why the neighbours point at me and say behind their hands.
“Sure yonder goes Mad Mickey, he’s the man who drank the farm.

And first I drank the bottom field and then I drank the bog.
Forty little black faced ewes and Shep the collie dog.
The cattle in the byre, the bonhams and the sow
Now I’ve finished with the harrow and I’m starting on the plough

Now Hector was the Bantam cock and he was the first to go.
For long before the crack of dawn he’d stick up his beak and crow.
A neighbour woman up the road admired him in the yard.
So two pounds fifty later and bould Hector got his cards.

Now the hens got agitated after Hector went away
And their beady eyes suggested their suspicions of foul play.
I looked up the Yellow Pages, a pheasant plucker said he’d buy
That night in Biddy Mulligan’s, boys I made the feathers fly.

Then a few old friends invited me to a soccer match in Spain.
So a load of bullocks later and I climbed aboard the plane.
I must have took the long way home for I wakened up in Greece
Where I found that bed and breakfast cost me cutlets, chops and fleece.

Mind you sheep are awful awkward yokes, for when they choose to graze
They insist on climbing to the tops of mountains, hills and braes.
When I heard that the All-Ireland was being held in Ballina
Without the slightest hesitation, I flogged the flock to fund the Fleadh

Now the bank is getting nasty and they say they’ll take no more
And have started pinning statements with sharp daggers to the door.
They say when they come round again, they’ll bring the bailiffs in
So it looks as if I’m facing Ruination Once Again.

Ruination Once Again
Ruination Once Again
Without another load of bullocks, it’s Ruination Once Again.

Now things are getting desperate cause theres nothing left to sell
But to my joy I hear that Uncle Pat is quite unwell.
I think I’’ call to see him with strong drink to ease his pain
And if Lady Luck smiles down on me, I’m in business once again

So first I’ll drink his bottom field and then I’ll drink his bog
His forty little black faced ewes and his little hairy dog.
The cattle in his byre, his bonhams and his sow
For I will and I must get plastered for the humour is on me now




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