A favorite Irish song, written by T. Dibdin, Esq., composed by Mr. Whitaker, and sung by Mr. Webb, at the Theatres Royal, also by Mr. R. L. Jones and Mr. Bryant, at the Select Subscription Readings and Music, Athenaeum Rooms, Bow Street.
My Grandsire beat a drum so neat, His name was Darby Kelly, O, No lad so true at rat-tat-too, At roll-call or reveille, O. When Marlbro's name—first rais'd his fame, My Grandy beat the point of war; At Blenheim he—at Ramillie, Made ears to tingle far and near. For with his wrist, he'd such a twist, The girls would leer, you don't know how; They laugh'd and cried, and sigh'd and died, To hear him beat the row-dow-dow, With a row-dow-dow, To hear him beat his row-dow-dow. They laugh'd and cried, and sigh'd and died, To hear him beat the row-dow-dow.
A son he had, which was my dad, As tight a lad as any, O, You e'er wou'd know, tho' you shou'd go From Chester to Kilkenny, O. When great Wolf died, his country's pride, To arms my dapper father beat; Each dale and hill remembers still, How loud, how long, how strong, how neat, With each drum stick, he had the trick, The girls wou'd leer, you don't know how; Their eyes wou'd glisten, their ears wou'd listen To hear him beat the row-dow-dow, With a row-dow-dow, To hear him beat the row-dow-dow. Their eyes would glisten, their ears would listen To hear him beat the row-dow-dow.
Yet e'er I wed, ne'er be it said, But what the foe I dare to meet; With Wellington, old Erin's son, To help to make them beat retreat. King Arthur once, or I'm a dunce, Was call'd the hero of his age, But what was he, to him we see, The Arthur of the modern page. For by the powers from Lisbon's tow'rs, Their trophies lure, to grace his brow; And made them prance from Spain to France, With his English, Irish row-dow-dow. With his row-dow-dow, With his English, Irish row-dow-dow. And made them prance from Spain to France With his English, Irish row-dow-dow.