I'd just like to sing one more, a reminiscence of a great ould time in a field near Portadown... Drumcree Hill

Last night as I lay dreaming of pleasant days gone by
My mind being bent on rambling to Ireland I did fly
I stepped on board a Translink train and I followed the bad smell
And I shortly came to anchor at the tent on Drumcree Hill

It being in the month July, the Sunday before the twelfth
When Ireland's great musicians were camping in the filth
The young and the old, the brave and the bold their journey to fulfill
At the little church in Drumcree, on the top of Drumcree Hill

I went to see my neighbors to hear what they might say
The old ones were all dead and gone and the young ones turning grey
I met with the Eamonn Holmes, he's as big as ever still
Sure he used to split his britches when he camped on Drumcree Hill

I paid a flying visit to my first and only love
She's as white as any lily and as gentle as a dove
She threw her arms around me saying "Christy I love you still"
Oh my bald Sinead O'Connor, she's the flower of Drumcree Hill

I dreamt I held and kissed her as in the days of yore
She said, "Christy you're only joking like many's the time before"
The cock he crew in the morning he crew both loud and shrill
And I awoke in California, many miles from Drumcree Hill.