Ah holy Jaysis! I'm getting' some quare shtick after my wee go at re-writin' Cúnla there up above. Sure wasn't I only commenting on poor bodhran batterin', not bodhrans per se! But the falk I'm getting' at the minute … sure I had an aisier time when I was acting as unofficial spokesman for the Republican movement!

Any road up, Ronnie started a wee number a while ago there – how're you Ronnie? ("Middling to raysonable, Christy, you big buck-eejit!") – and I sat down with a wee half-size pen out of the bookies and ripped the picture of a beer-mat and scribbled this wee hymn to the bodhran, by way of following his lead.

And here – before I start – is there any chance of a wee swallow? My oul' tongue's like an emery board, so it is!

They say that the bongos make music that's quare
The sound of a tom-tom is hard to compare
If it's drumming you want you'll find no drum so rare
Than the drums that they make down in Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome

The jazzers have bongos, the prods have lambegs
Whose rattlin' is reckoned to frighten the taigs
And some play the spoons and some they shake eggs
But there's none houls a candle to Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome

Castanets, bones and the boul' tambourine
Clackers, marrackers, are frequently seen
But they're put in the shade when oul' Ringo or Gino
Produces the drum made in Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome

The boul' Cathy Jordan has got a quare voice
But to tell you the truth, boys, if I had a choice
I'd far rather hear her create a great noise
On the drums that they make down in Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome

Sit in on a session wherever you roam
And musicians will soon make you feel right at home
As soon as you pull out your tunable drum
That was handmade by Kearns down in Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome

To hell with begrudgers, as Behan would say
Cherish your bodhran and batter away
Drown out so-called musicians who barely can play
With your drum that was made down in Roundstone

The boul' Malachy, he makes drums for me
For ninety nine pounds and ninety nine pee
Stick your hand in your pocket and I'll guarantee
That you'll never from that day feel lonesome