This is how I remember our old 78. It's a shame there isn't a decent version on Youtube.


There's a man by the name of Mike Hogan,
Who's plaguing me out of me life,
He has a big daughter named Brigid,
And he wants me to make her me wife.
She stands six foot four in her stockings,
Her waist of meself would make three,
And whenever I'm standing beside her,
Me elbow just reaches her knee.

Oh! Patsy McCann, will you marry me daughter?
Patsy McCann, she's the girl you must wed,
Ten golden sovereigns down I will give you,
A three-legged stool and a fine feather bed.
Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint Patrick,
All the pictures that hang on the wall,
I'll throw them all into the bargain,
If you'll marry me daughter at all.

Well, I married that big Brigid Hogan,
And she's mine now for better or worse.
But the blessing that she should have brought me,
Would seem to have changed to a curse!
She bites me, she strikes me, she flays me,
She ties me lest I'd run away,
This six-foot-four beauty's a caution,
But her father was worse for to say:

Oh! Patsy McCann, will you marry me daughter?
Patsy McCann, she's the girl you must wed,
Ten golden sovereigns down I will give you,
A three-legged stool and a fine feather bed.
Saint Peter, Saint Paul, and Saint Patrick,
All the pictures that hang on the wall,
I'll throw them all into the bargain,
If you'll marry me daughter at all.