At the local folk club, in fairest London,
One pleasant evening in the month of May,
There stood a singer, of Cockney breeding
And his singing fairly took my breath away:

Ch: He had no talent, or sense of rhythm
No ear for music, no none at all….
But he sang for ages, went on for pages,
And he sang them slowly, in a Galway drawl.

He sang of Ireland, as if he'd been there,
He sang of troubles and war and pain.
He stopped eventually, we clapped politely,
So he stood and sang them all again:

He sang of rebels and Irish rovers,
The lakes, Coolphin and Ponchitrain
He sang each note, like an Irish setter
And the tears stood in our eyes with pain.

He kept on singing, we started walking,
Till the Temple Station came into view,
Says he to us, 'mates, all back to my place,
Where I've got another book of songs or two: