The oul' bodhran's gettin' some quare stick! Here's a wee attempt to redress the balance. Bit o' whisht, there! And while I'm at it, could some craytur get me a bottle and half-un? My oul' gaper's that dry you'd think I'd been lickin' Right Guard! Good luck to all here, now, barrin' thon goat Who's still proudly wearin' his oul' shaggy coat We'll soon put the bleatin' clane out o' his head We'll skin him and tan him the instant he's dead We'll cure his oul' hide and we'll gaily tattoo And all round the rim we'll scratch seán nós abú Such drummin' you'll never yet hear nor yet see As we'll raise from the goats around Tandragee So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee You've heard of the famed Cozy Powell I'm sure And oul' Buddy Rich is a rhythmical hoor But give an oul' bodhran to one of thon two And the buggers would not know a damn what to do They'd houl the oul' b'ater like it was a club And leather away, they would pound and they'd drub But the noise that would issue would grieve your poor ears And cause the trad player to weep bitter tears So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee Ringo McDonagh can hit 'er a welt And Gino Lupari can give a quare belt (They say when he dies that they'll cure his big tum And cover the frame of an oul' Lambeg drum!) Christy can patter and Kathy can rowl And vary the tone when they give 'er a boul Oul' Malachy's drums are an grá geal mo chroí When sporting fine hides from roun' Tandragee So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee So not to detain you I'll end my oul' song The oul' bodhran's been slagged and I think that it's wrong This percussive oul' instrument's got a bad name That attaches to hide and to tipper and frame In the wrong hands, it's the devil's own curse Like the bongo, the djembe, or instruments worse But played with great feeling, it fills you with glee And no more gleeful hide than from Tandragee So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee
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