There's a moral to my' story, boys, And that you all must see. Lomax and Alan Lomax, , , Notes from the Lomax edition:. The "Sam Stack tree," a famous make of saddles. Spanish, dar la vuelta. Other words used for a turn or two of the rope around the horn of the saddle are "daling," "vueltin," "felting," "dale vuelting. Author unknown. First heard this sung in San Andreas Mountains.
I think it was by 'Gene Rhodes. Through the progress of the railroad our occupation's gone; So we put ideas into words, our words into a song.
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First comes the cowboy; he is pointed for the west; Of all the pioneers I claim the cowboys are the best; You will miss him on the round-up; it's gone, his merry shout, — The cowboy has left the country and the camp-fire has gone out. There is the freighters, our companions; you've got to leave this land; Can't drag your loads for nothing through the gumbo and the sand. The railroads are bound to beat you when you do your level best; So give it up to the grangers and strike out for the west.
Bid them all adieu and give the merry shout — The cowboy has left the country, and the camp-fire has gone out. When I think of those good old days, my eyes with tears do fill; When I think of the tin can by the fire and coyote on the hill. I'll tell you boys, in those days old-timers stood a show, — Our pockets full of money, not a sorrow did we know. But things have changed now; we are poorly clothed and fed.
Our wagons are all broken and our ponies 'most all dead. Soon we will leave this country; you'll hear the angels shout, "Oh, here they come to Heaven, the camp-fire has gone out. It is possible that it might have been written by Ben Arnold Connor, an old-time frontiersman and cowboy. He took credit for the song in his autobiography, Rekindling Campfires.
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Yvonne Hollenbeck has written about this song. Ben Arnold Connor was her great grandfather. She comments here in her My Home on the Prairie column, and includes her grandmother's comment on the poem and how it became a song. The Cowman 's Prayer Don't know the author's name. Heard it sung in a cowcamp near Ft. Sumner, on the Pecos River, New Mexico. Now, O Lord, please lend me thine ear, The prayer of a cattleman to hear; No doubt the prayer may seem strange, But I want you to bless our cattle range. Bless the round-ups year by year, And don't forget the growing steer; Water the lands with brooks and rills For my cattle that roam on a thousand hills.
Prairie fires, won't you please stop? Let thunder roll and water drop. It frightens me to see the smoke; Unless it's stopped, I'll go dead broke. As you, O Lord, my herd behold, It represents a sack of gold; I think at least five cents a pound Will be the price of beef the year round. One thing more and then I'm through,-- Instead of one calf, give my cows two. I may pray different from other men, But I've had my say, and now, Amen.
Read more about this poem and earlier versions in our Strays collection here. The Great Round -up I first heard this song sung by Sally White, at Toya, Texas in , although a slightly different version was published in my first edition of "Songs of the Cowboys. And I wonder if any will greet me On the sands of the evergreen shore With a hearty, "God bless you, old fellow," That I've met with so often before. I think of the big-hearted fellows Who will divide with you, blanket and bread, With a piece of stray beef well roasted, And charge for it never a red.
I often look upward and wonder If the green fields will seem half so fair, If any the wrong trail have taken And fail to "be in" over there. For the trail that leads down to perdition Is paved all the way with good deeds, But in the great round-up of ages, Dear boys, this won't answer your needs. But the way to green pastures, though narrow, Leads straight to the home in the sky, And Jesus will give you the passports To the land of the sweet by and by. For the Saviour has taken the contract To deliver all those who believe, At the headquarters ranch of His Father, In the great range where none can deceive.
The Inspector will stand at the gateway And the herd, one by one, will go by,-- The round-up by the angels in judgment Must past 'neath His all-seeing eye. No maverick or slick will be tallied In the great book of life in his home, For he knows all the brands and the earmarks That down through the ages have come. But along with the tailings and sleepers The strays must turn from the gate; No road brand to gain them admission, But the awful sad cry of "too late.
The Last Longhorn I have been unable to trace the authorship of this song. Have heard it sung in many places and also recited. An ancient long-horned bovine Lay dying by the river; There was a lack of vegetation And the cold winds made him shiver; A cowboy sat beside him, With sadness in his face, To see his final passing,-- This last of a noble race. The ancient eunuch struggled And raised his shaking head, Saying, "I care not to linger When all my friends are dead.
These Jerseys and these Holsteins, They are no friends of mine; They belong to the nobility Who live across the brine. I little dreamed what would happen Some twenty summers hence, When the nester came with his wife, his kids, His dogs, and the barbed-wire fence. His voice sank to a murmur, His breath was short and quick; The cowboy tried to skin him When he saw he could n't kick; He rubbed his knife upon his book Until he made it shine, But he never skinned old longhorn, 'Case he could n't cut his rine. And the cowboy riz up sadly And mounted his cayuse, Saying, "The time has come when longhorns And cowboys are no use.
The cowboys and the longhorns Who pardnered in eighty-four Have gone to their last round-up Over on the other shore; They answered well their purpose, But their glory must fade and go, Because men say there's better things In the modern cattle show. I regret that I do not know the author's name.
At midnight, when the cattle are sleeping, On my saddle I pillow my head, And up at the heavens lie peeping From out of my cold grassy bed;-- Often and often I wondered, At night when lying alone, If every bright star up yonder Is a big peopled world like our own. Are they worlds with their ranges and ranches? Do they ring with rough rider refrains? Do the cowboys scrap there with Comanches And other Red Men of the plains? Are the hills covered over with cattle In those mystic worlds far, far away?
Do the ranch-houses ring with the prattle Of sweet little children at play? At night, in the bright starts up yonder, Do the cowboys lie down to their rest? Do they gaze at this old world and wonder If rough riders dash over its breast? Do they list to the wolves in the canyons? Do they watch the night owl in its flight, With their horses their only companions While guarding the herd through the night? Sometimes, when a bright start is twinkling Like a diamond set in the sky, I find myself lying and thinking, It may be God's heaven is nigh.
In the east the great daylight is breaking, And into my saddle I spring; The cattle from sleep are awakening, The heaven-thoughts from me take wing; The eyes of my broncho are flashing, Impatient he pulls at the reins, And off round the herd I go dashing, A reckless cowboy of the plains. It is also on Carl T. The Gol- Darned Wheel.
Mailed me by a friend from Marfa, Texas, who heard it sung by a cow-puncher named Hudspeth. I can take the wildest bronco in the tough old woolly West; I can ride him, I can break him, let him do his level best; I can handle any cattle who ever wore a coat of hair, And I've had a lively russle with a tarnal grizzly bear; I can rope and throw the longhorn of the wildest Texas brand, And in Indian disagreements I can play a leading hand; But at last I got my master, and he surely made me squeal When the boys got me a-straddle of that gol-darned wheel.
A tenderfoot had brought it; he was wheeling all the way From the sunrise end of freedom out to San Francisco Bay. He tied up at the ranch for to get outside a meal, Never thinkin' we would monkey with his gol-darned wheel Arizona Jim begun it when he said to Jack McGill, There was fellows forced to limit braggin' on their ridin' skill; And he'd venture the admission the same fellow that he meant Was a very handy critter far as ridin' broncos went; But he would find that he was buckin' 'gainst a different kind of deal If he threw his leather leggins 'gainst a gol-darned wheel.
Such a slam against my talent made me hotter than a mink, And I swore that I would ride him for amusement or for chink. And it was nothin' but a plaything for the kids and such about, And they'd have their ideas shattered if they'd lead the critter out. They held it while I mounted and gave the word to go; The shove they gave to start me warn't unreasonably slow. But I never spilled a cuss-word and I never spilled a squeal-- I was buildin' reputation on that gol-darned wheel. Holy Moses and the Prophets, how we split the Texas air, And the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old canthy hair, And sorta comprehended as down the hill we went There was bound to be a smash-up that I could n't well prevent.
Oh, how them punchers bawled, "Stay with her, Uncle Bill! Stick your spurs in her, you sucker! Turn her muzzle up the hill! The grade was mighty slopin' from the ranch down to the creek, And I went a-galliflutin' like a crazy lightnin' streak-- Went whizzin' and a-dartin' first this way and then that, The darned contrivance sort o' wobbling like the flyin' of a bat.
I pulled upon the handles, but I could n't check it up, And I yanked and sawed and hollowed but the darned thing would n't stop. Then a sort of a thinker in my brain began to steal, That the devil held a mortgage on that gol-darned wheel. I've sort o' dim and hazy remembrance of the stop, With the world a-goin' 'round and the stars all tangled up; Then there came an intermission that lasted till I found I was lyin' at the ranch with the boys all gathered round, And a doctor was sewin' on the skin where it was ripped, And old Arizona whispered, "Well, old boy, I guess you're whipped.
Holy Moses and the Prophets, how we split the Texas air, And the wind it made whip-crackers of my same old canthy hair. When the original was discovered in see below , the lines were shown as:. Holy Moses and the prophets, how we split the Texas air, The breezes made whip crackers o' my somewhat lengthy hair. The unfortunate bicycle was of the very tall front-wheel variety, which preceded the safety type.
Bogel, a student and the Agricultural and Mechanical College of Texas, first sang this song to me in The book notes the source for its version, "This song was sung by Buck Lee on a recording by folklorists Austin and Alta Fife. Glenn Ohrlin has recorded the song, and in his book, The Hell Bound Train , he calls it "a fine example of the 'funny' cowboy song.
Coolidge wrote further, 'This was hot stuff and the boys all wanted a copy of it. They were like housewives exchanging recipes, only a cowboy hates to write. See two other poems with bicycle themes, A. This poster advertises "a race between S. Cody on horseback and French cycling champion, Meyer of Dieppe. Cody — is shown in a photo. He took his name and obviously his resemblance from Buffalo Bill Cody and claimed to have been a cowboy. More on the photo here: www. More on Cody at www. The race in the poster was mentioned in a New York Times article, "Cyclists against horsemen," on December 20, The article tells about a previous hour race that Cody won and says about this later two-day, six-hour race, that "Capt.
Cody was allowed six horses He writes, in part, " Using the "Chronicling Historic America" site, searching thousands of newspapers across the United States, looking for hits on "Cowboy" and "Wheel" brought up the front page of the St. Well, Recreation, was the name of a sporting magazine published by G. James B. Adams, better known as a poet and "paragrapher" for the Denver Post under his full name, James Barton Adams, is one of the well-known scribbler's of Cowboy poetry and contributed a number of evergreens, particularly the "High-Toned Dance.
I first heard it sung by J. Latham at La Luz, New Mexico. Montana is too cold for me And the winters are too long Before the round-ups do begin, Our money is all gone. Take this old hen-skin bedding, Too thin to keep me warm; I nearly freeze to death, my boys, Whenever there's a storm. Now to win these fancy leggins I'll have enough to do They cost me twenty dollars The day that they were new. If you want to see some bad lands, Go over on the Dry; You will bog down in the coulees Where the mountains reach the sky. A tenderfoot to lead you Who never knows the way; You are playing in the best of luck If you eat more than once a day.
Your grub is bread and bacon, And coffee black as ink; The water so full of alkali It is hardly fit to drink. They will wake you in the morning, Before the break of day And send you on a circle A hundred miles away. All along the Yellowstone 't is cold the year around, You will surely get consumption By sleeping on the ground.
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Work in Montana Is six months in a year; When all your bills are settled, There is nothing left for beer. Work down in Texas Is all the year around; You will never get consumption By sleeping on the ground. Come, all you Texas cowboys, And warning take from me, And do not go to Montana To spend your money free. But stay at home in Texas, Where work lasts the year around; And you will catch consumption By sleeping on the ground.
In the Songs of the Cowboys , edited by Austin E. Fife, they write, "Thorp's text is unified, vigorous, and satisfying. It is a pity that in he felt constrained to abandon it for the longer but synthetic text that Lomax fabricated, using stanzas from three or four of several texts that he had encountered before The author was identified only by the initials M. Who later added music to the poem is not on record His is probably the first attempt to assemble a group of cowboy songs for publication. In the liner notes, he writes, " All cattle country.
Most professional cowboys, ranch and rodeo hands both, know North America and what it contains better than most folks. The bawl of a steer To a cowboy's ear Is music of sweetest strain; And the yelping notes Of the gray coyotes To him are a glad refrain. And his jolly songs Speed him along As he thinks of the little gal With golden hair Who is waiting there At the bars of the home corral.
For a kingly crown In the noisy town His saddle he would n't change; No life so free As the life we see 'Way out on the Yaso range. His eyes are bright And his heart as light As the smoke of his cigarette; There's never a care For his soul to bear, No trouble to make him fret. The rapid beat Of his bronco's feet On the sod as he speeds along, Keeps living time To the ringing rhyme Of his rollicking cowboy's song.
Hike it, cowboys, For the range away On the back of a bronc of steel, With a careless flirt Of the raw-hide quirt And the dig of a roweled heel. The winds may blow And the thunder growl Or the breeze may safely moan; A cowboy's life Is a royal life, His saddle his kingly throne. Saddle up, boys, For the work is play When love's in the cowboy's eyes, When his heart is light As the clouds of white That swim in the summer skies.
The first lines of the piece have been quoted often and have appeared on postcards see above and such. One postcard attributes the piece to James Barton Adams and a work of his we haven't located, "The Trail" it does not appear in Adams' collection of poems, Breezy Western Verse. Read more about Adams here. Thorp, in another entry in his Songs of the Cowboys , includes this very similar, but expanded piece, attributed to Adams:.
The bawl of a steer to a cowboy's ear is music of sweetest strain; And the yelling notes of the gray coyotes to him are a glad refrain; The rapid beat of his bronco's feet on the sod as he speeds along, Keeps 'livening time to the ringing rhyme of his rollicking cowboy's song. His eyes are bright and his heart is light a s the smoke of his cigarette, There's never a care for his soul to bear, no troubles to make him fret.
For a kingly crown in the noisy town his saddle he would not change-- No life so free as the life we see 'way out on the cattle range. To the range away, On the deck of a bronc of steel With a careless flirt Of a rawhide quirt And a dig of the roweled heel. The winds may howl, And the thunder growl, Or the breeze may softly moan; The rider's life Is the life for me, The saddle a kingly throne.
At the long day's close he and his bronco throws with the bunch in the hoss corral, And a light he spies in the bright blue eyes of his welcoming rancher gal; 'T is a light that tells of the love that dwells in the soul of his little dear, And a kiss he slips to her waiting lips when no one is watching near.
His glad thoughts stray to the coming day when away to the town they'll ride, And the nuptial brand by the parson's hand will be placed on his bonnie bride, And they'll gallop back to the old home shack in the life that is new and strange-- The rider bold and the girl of gold, the queen of the cattle range. A cowboys life is a weary dreary life Some people think it free from all care Its rounding up cattle from morning to night On the lone prairie so drear.
When the spring work comes in then our troubles begin The weather being fierce and cold We get almost froze with the water on our clothes And the cattle we can scarcely hold. Just about four o'clock the cook will holler out "Roll our boys its almost day" Through his broken slumbers the puncher he will ask Has the short summer night passed away. Once I loved to roam but now I stay at home All you punchers take my advice Sell your bridle and your saddle quit your roaming and travels And tie on to a cross eyed wife.
This tune has also been called "The Dreary, Dreary Life" see the piece below and by other names. In the Songs of the Cowboys, by N. Fife they write,. In fact, he made two separate songs-- "The Kansas Line" and "The Dreary, Dreary Life"--apparently by combining stanzas from his various sources in a more or less random manner In Thorp gave five of the most usual stanzas [in "The Pecos Stream"].
In he offered eight by combining some of Lomax's text with his own [in "The Dreary, Dreary Life"]. The Fifes devote a chapter to the song, and, as Don Edwards does in his Classic Cowboy Songs book, they note that the song probably came from "The Shantyman's Life," a nineteenth century Maine lumberman's song. An old song, a jumble of several.
Authorship unknown. A cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, Some say it's free from care; Rounding up the cattle from morning till night On the bald prairie so bare. Just about four o'clock old cook will holler out, "Roll out, boys, it's almost day. The cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, He's driven through the heat and cold; While the rich man's a-sleeping on his velvet couch, Dreaming of his silver and gold.
When the spring work sets in, then our troubles will begin, The weather being fierce and cold;' We're almost froze, with the water on our clothes, And the cattle we can scarcely hold. The cowboy's life is a dreary, weary one, He works all day to the setting of the sun; And then his day's work is not done, For there's his night guard to go on.
Saddle Up! You are speaking of your farms, you are speaking of your charms, You are speaking of your silver and gold; But a cowboy's life is a dreary, dreary life, He's driven through the heat and cold. Once I loved to roam, but now I stay at home: All you punchers take my advice; Sell your bridle and your saddle, quit your roaming and travels, And tie on to a cross-eyed wife.
The Tenderfoot. I thought one spring, just for fun, I'd see how cow-punching was done; And when the round-ups had begun I tackled the cattle-king. Says he, " My foreman is in town, He's at the plaza, his name is Brown; If you'll see him he'll take you down. He said that cow-punching was child play, That it was no work at all,— That all you had to do was ride, 'T was only drifting with the tide; Oh, how that old cow-puncher lied— He certainly had his gall. He put me in charge of a cavyard, And told me not to work too hard, That all I had to do was guard The horses from getting away; I had one hundred and sixty head, I sometimes wished that I was dead; When one got away, Brown's head turned red, And there was hell to pay.
Straight to the bushes they would take, As if they were running for a stake,— I've often wished their neck they 'd break, But they would never fall. Sometimes I could not head them at all, Sometimes my horse would catch a fall, And I'd shoot on like a cannon ball Till the earth came in my way. They saddled me up an old gray hack With two set-fasts on his back; They padded him down with a gunny sack And used my bedding all.
When I got on he quit the ground, Went up in the air and turned around, And I came down and hit the ground,— It was an awful fall. They picked me up and carried me in And rubbed me down with an old stake-pin. Says he, "Yes—back to town. I've traveled up and I've traveled down, I've traveled this country round and round, I've lived in city and I've lived in town, But I've got this much to say: Before you try cow-punching, kiss your wife, Take a heavy insurance on your life, Then cut your throat with a barlow knife, — For it's easier done that way.
The words to "The Tenderfoot" have been sung and recorded by many, and the song has had a number of names. Early radio singer John White dug up the dope on this song. The verses first appeared as a poem entitled "D2 Horse Wrangler" in a livestock journal printed in Miles City, Montana. It was written by cowboy poet D. John White's book, Git Along, Little Dogies , has details about the poem and comments on the words and references in the poem.
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As to its origin, he writes, in part:. O'Malley told me that he himself wrote them but because the subject wanted to surprise his wife by blossoming out as a poet, he was allowed to sign his name—for a consideration—a five dollar hat, which was the most O'Malley ever received for a set of verses White tells the story in his introduction to D.
White's book also includes a great vintage photo of D. O'Malley in his baseball uniform, where he played as "catcher on the Miles City Nine" from You can see O'Malley's "D2 Wrangler" here. Night -Herding Song. This is part of an old song, slightly changed. I lost the other verses when one of my ranch buildings burned down at Palma, New Mexico, some years ago. Oh, slow up, dogies, quit your roving round, You have wandered and tramped all over the ground; Oh, graze along, dogies, and feed kinda slow, And don't forever be on the go,— Oh, move slow, dogies, move slow.
I have circle-herded, trail-herded, night-herded, and cross-herded, too, But to keep you together that's what I can't do; My horse is leg-weary and I'm awful tired, But if you get away I'm sure to get fired,— Bunch up, little dogies, bunch up. Oh, say, little dogies, when are you goin' to lay down And quit this forever siftin' around? My limbs are weary, my seat is sore; Oh, lay down, dogies, like you've laid before,— Lay down, little dogies, lay down.
Oh, lay still, dogies, since you have laid down, Stretch away out on the big open ground; Snore loud, little dogies, and drown the wild sound That will all go away when the day rolls round,— Lay still, little dogies, lay still. At the Western Folklife Center site here , you can listen to Harry Stephens singing the song and commenting on how the song came about.
Lomax in the s and s. The site also includes Henry Stephens' words, a variation of Thorp's version. Many other variations exist. Grass is a-rising and I've got to move on. He has left behind him a beautiful 'Night-Herding' song. But they did meet again, and John I. White, in his book, Git Along Little Dogies , includes a number of interesting pages about the song and information about that meeting, along with photos of Harry Stephens. White comments, "In his youth Harry was, indeed, as restless as the dogies he wrote about. While still in his teens he left his birthplace, Denison, Texas, to roam Arizona and New Mexico, learning the cowboy's trade—breaking broncos, branding calves at the spring roundups, in the fall collecting beef cattle for shipping, taking his turn at night-herding.
He brought along his saddle trimmed with silver, his bridle, his spurs, and other cowboy gear, which he hung on the walls of his room. He slept in a bedroll instead of a bed. He often wore his boots and ten-gallon hat to class. Authorship ascribed to father of Captain Roberts, of the Texas Rangers. Last night, as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by. I hear there's to be a grand round-up Where cowboys with others must stand, To be cut out by the riders of judgment Who are posted and know all the brands.
The trail to that great mystic region Is narrow and dim, so they say; While the one that leads down to perdition Is posted and blazed all the way. Whose fault is it, then, that so many Go astray, on this wild range fail, Who might have been rich and had plenty Had they known of the dim, narrow trail?
I wonder if at the last day some cowboy Unbranded and unclaimed should stand, Would he be mavericked by those riders of judgment Who are posted and know all the brands? I wonder if ever a cowboy Stood ready for that Judgment Day, And could say to the Boss of the Riders, "I'm ready, come, drive me away"? For they, like the cows that are locoed, Stampede at the sight of a hand, Are dragged with a rope to the round-up, Or get marked with some crooked man's brand. And I'm scared that I'll be a stray yearling, A maverick, unbranded on high, And get cut in the bunch with the "rusties" When the Boss of the Riders goes by.
For they tell of another big owner Who's ne'er overstocked, so they say, But who always makes room for the sinner Who drifts from the straight, narrow way. They say he will never forget you, That he knows every action and look; So for safety you'd better get branded, Have your name in the great Tally Book. My wish for all cowboys is this: That we may meet at that grand final sale; Be cut out by the riders of judgment And shoved up the dim, narrow trail.
Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by-and-by. Roll on, roll on; Roll on, little dogies, roll on Roll on, roll on, roll on; Roll on, little dogies, roll on. The road to that bright, happy region Is a dim, narrow trail, so they say; But the broad one that leads to perdition Is posted and blazed all the way.
Once again with proud hearts we make the old surrender, Once again with high hearts serve the age to be, Not for us the warm life of Earth, secure and tender, Ours the eternal wandering and warfare of the sea. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 2. He played with the fleet as a boy with boats Till out for the Downs we ran, And he laugh'd with the roar of a thousand throats At the militant ways of man: Oh! I am the enemy most of might, The other be who you please! Gunner and guns may all be right, Flags a-flying and armour tight, But I am the fellow you've first to fight -- The giant that swings the seas.
A dozen of middies were down below Chasing the X they love, While the table curtseyed long and slow And the lamps were giddy above. The lesson was all of a ship and a shot, And some of it may have been true, But the word they heard and never forgot Was the word of the wind that blew: Oh! I am the enemy most of might, etc. Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 3. Like fleets along a cloudy shore The constellations creep, Like planets on the ocean floor Our silent course we keep. And over the endless plain, Out of the night forlorn Rises a faint refrain, A song of the day to be born -- Watch, oh watch till ye find again Life and the land of morn.
From a dim West to a dark East Our lines unwavering head, As if their motion long had ceased And Time itself were dead. Vainly we watch the deep below, Vainly the void above, They died a thousand years ago -- Life and the land we love. But over the endless plain, Out of the night forlorn Rises a faint refrain, A song of the day to be born -- Watch, oh watch till ye find again Life and the land of morn.
Submitted by Emily Ezust [ Administrator ] 4. Songs may fit into more than one category, but where possible are grouped uniquely to where is most appropriate. Songs relating to the Irish Rebellion of though not necessarily contemporary :. These songs can be grouped as: aislings , broken token songs, night visiting songs, modern songs, etc.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Soodlum's Irish Ballad Book. New York: Oak publications. Retrieved 15 August One Voice. Treasury of Irish Songs and Ballads. Dublin: Walton's Music. Digital Tradition Mudcat mirror. Digital Tradition. April Retrieved 20 September Published by Red Hand Books.
More Irish Street Ballads. Dublin: Three Candles Press. Irish Street Ballads. The Irish Songbook. New York: Wise Publications. The Vaughan Williams Memorial Library. Retrieved 30 April Remembering the year of the French: Irish folk history and social memory. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press. Healy, Ballads from the pubs of Ireland. Passing the time in Ballymenone: culture and history of an Ulster community. University of Pennsylvania Press,
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