OK here goes, Fergie:
I wrote these pieces of doggerel for the sleeve notes, as I mentioned above, in 1968 after a few weeks observation as I was their road manager at the time (1967).

The Dubliners

Luke Kelly:
And then there's carrot-headed Luke
Who's never seen without a book!
Smollet, Joyce or Dostoevsky,
Luke takes a smoothly as malt whisky,
And every word that Tolstoy wrote,
Our Luke can quote, and quote, and quote!
At singing he's beyond compare,
No skylark warbles quite so rare!
With banjo gripped in both his hands,
Legs wide apart, he takes his stand.
His beard, his cheeks, his eyes, his head
A burning mass of fiery red.
What will he sing? Our Luke's no prude,
'The Rocks of Baun' or just 'Hey Jude'

Ciaran Bourke:
Ciaran Bourke's a monstrous man
With voice as soft as marzipan,
And after 15 crème de menthe
He'll read you poems in Ireland's tongue.
And in the wee hours o' the morn
You'll wake up hearing Ciaran's horn,
Tin whistle, pipes or big guitar
Playing 'Open up the Bar'
And to begin the breakfast hours,
A triple vodka, a glass of Powers'
A double brandy (with a dash of port)
To wash away the morning's hurt,
Some pints to settle hand and brain
Then Ciaran's fit to drink again!

Barnet MacKenna:
Barney MacKenna's the banjo king
He love it more that anything,
And when at night he rests his head,
He takes his banjo into bed.
One night MacKenna had a dream
When from his wife there came a scream!
This lovely girl (her name is Joka)
Though our Barney tried to choke her,
He held her throat and twisted her ear,
'I'm only tuning me banjo, dear',
Then Joka roared 'It's it or me!
The bed was never built for three!'
So now the banjo goes to bed
And Joka has the floor instead!

John Sheahan:
Beneath John Sheahan's bushy chin
He hides a flute and mandolin!
But when our John is asked to play
His fiddle's never far away.
And play! The man will play you any
From Zozzimus to Paganini!
No gargle ever wets his lips,
(Except unalcoholic sips).
Though up and down OUR elbows go
When John's goes up, the tunes will flow.
With solemn face and twinkling eyes,
His long bow sweeps draw praising cries:
A touch of tear-jerking vibrato
And a final cheeky 'pizzicato'!