But as it was Healy's Ballads of the Pubs OF Ireland, I figured I'd better look farther. The book has no tune for the song, but here are the lyrics.

MacNamara's Bilingual Ballad
[words: Donough MacNamara (CDonnchadh Mac Con-Mara)


As I was walking one evening fair,
Agus me go déanacha m-baile Sheagáin
I met a gang of English blades
Agus iad da d-traohadh ag neart a námhaid;
I boozed and drank both late and early,
With those courageous 'men-of-war;'
'S gur bhinne liom Sasanaigh ag ruith ar
'S gan do Ghaoidhil ann acht flor bheagán.

I spent my fortune by being freakish,
Drinking, raking and playing cards;
Gidh ná raibh airgiod agam, 'ná greithre,
Na rád san t-saogal, achd nídh gan áird!
Then I turned a jolly tradesman,
By work and labour I lived abroad;
'S bloch ar m'fallaing-si gur mór an bhréag sin
Is beag dén t-saothar do thuit le m'láimh.

Newfoundland is a fine plantation,
It shall be my station till I die,
Mo chrádh! go m'fhearr liom a bheith a n-éire,
Ag díol gáirteiríghe, ná ag dul fá'n g-coill;
Here you may find a virtuous lady
A smiling fair one to please your eye,
An paca staigionnadh is measa tréithe,
Go m-beireadh mé ar a bheith as radharc!

I'll join in fellowship with 'Jack-of-all-Trades,'
The last of August could I but see;
Atá fhios ag Coisdhealbhadh's ar maghaisdir báid e,
Gur b'olc an láimh me ar muir 'ná air tír;
If fortune smiles then, I'll be her darling,
But, if she scorns my company
Déanfad 'Bainistídhe an Toill anáirde.'
'S as fada ón áit-si do bheidheadh mé 'ris.

Come drink a health, boys, to Royal George,
Our chief commander, nár órdaigh Críosd;
'S biodh bhúr n-athchuingidhe chum Muire Mhatair
E fein 's a ghárdaighe do Leagadh síos:
We'll fear no Cannon, nor 'War's Alarms,'
While noble George will be our guide,
A Chríost go bhfeiceadh mé an bhrúid da chárnadh
Ag an Mac* soar fán uainn thall san bhFrainc.


Rough translations of the lines in Irish: —
verse I
line 2 'and I lately in St. Johns'
line 4 'and they being subdued by the strength of their enemies'
7 and 8 'and Sweet 'twas for me to see English retreating and only few Irish there'.

verse 2
lines 3 and 4 'Although I had no money or jewels
or anything in the world that was valuable
7 and 8 'And, by my soul, but thats a great lie — 'twas little work that I did

verse 3
lines 3 and 4 'Alas, I'd rather be in Ireland
Selling garters or taking to the woods'
7 and 8 'A pack of whores of the worst kind
— May I be swept out of their sight!

verse 4
lines 3 and 4 'Costello knows, and he's a ship's master That I'm no good on sea or land
7 and 8 'I'll manage for myself a little hideout and it's far from this place I'll be again'.

verse 5
line 2 'Not blessed by Christ'
3 and 4 'And let your prayers to Mother Mary be
That he and his gangsters may be struck down'
7 and 8 'O Christ; May I see the brute defeated
By this son astray from us over in France'.

*Prince Charles Edward Stuart. ('Bonnie Prince Charlie')


Notes:
MacNamara spent much of his time away from Ireland, but died at last at home, aged over a hundred in 1814, and is buried in the graveyard near Kilmacthomas in County Waterford.
The use of two languages in his clever bilingual song is significant for the long century of his life was the time of when the Irish peasantry were beginning to speak English instead of their native tongue. It was one of the last phases of a natural expression of poetry in the old tongue — a phase which had produced such Irish song-makers as Egan O'Reilly or (Aodhagan O'Rathaille) and Owen Roe O'Sullivan (Eoghan Roe O'Suilleabhàin). It also produced a remarkable group of wandering poets in County Limerick centered on the public house of John Twomey the Gay (Seán ó Túama, an Grínn) in Croom.
Aindreas MacGrath — 'An Mangaire Súgac' ('The Jolly Pedlar') probably the best-known wandering song-maker of the day, improvident and hard-drinking, was one of these.
Eventually they eat and drank O'Tuama out of house and home and after a wandering life of various occupations — some of the time spent as a domestic servant which produced the well known 'Bean na Cleithe Caoile' (Woman of the Slender Wattle) — he died, aged sixty-nine, in Limerick in 1775, and received the tribute of an enormous funeral attended by bards, ballad-makers and poets of every degree who had remembered the days when he proudly and lavishly dispensed hospitality to all.

Source: Ballads from the Pubs of Ireland, James N. Healy, Mercier Press, 1965 (1974 printing) (#15, pages 48-50).



I hope I got the fádas right.

-Joe-