Here y'go, courtesy of 'Sing Up' - two for the price of one,
Enjoy
Jim Carroll

WILLIE MAC BRIDE: THE REVENGE

Have you heard of the song about Willie Mac Bride?
If I hear it again it'll turn me inside.
For it's sung in the Springtime, it's sung in the Fall,
And mostly by people who can't sing at all.
You go down to the bar on a Saturday night
For a pint and a song, and things are all right
'Till some drunken punter slumps down by your side,—saying:
"Sing us that song about Willie Mac Bride."
Now you say you don't know it—but this will not do,
For now he's determined to sing it to you,
And he spills half your drink and starts off in a key
That was never invented on land or on sea!
And as things go on sure the whole thing gets worse
For you now realise that he knows every verse.
With his arm round your shoulder—for now he's your friend—
He's going to sing the damn thing to the end.

CHORUS:
Did they sing the song badly?
Did they drink the pints gladly?
Did the drunks fall asleep as they lowered them down?
Did the barman cry "Last Drinks!" in chorus
Did the punters cry "Thank Christ that's over!"

You go out to the Gents for a quarter of an hour
And you watch the TV in the old Public Bar,
And then you come back thinking that he will tire
But he's still going on about gas and barbed wire.
And ten minutes later you're now in a trance
For he's up to his oxters in the Green Fields of France,
The punters are quiet—you won't hear a peep—
And you now realise that they've all gone to sleep.
CHORUS

Oh, Willie Mac Bride why the hell did you die?
The trouble you'd have saved if you'd come back alive.
If you'd got a good job, or signed on the b'roo—
Wed not have to listen to songs about you.
But still I don't know now—I'm glad that you're dead
With the green Fields of France piled up over your head;
For the trouble you've caused since the day that you died
Oh, shootin's too good for you, Willie Mac Bride.
CHORUS

Now listen, Mac Bride, what the hell is your game
With a photograph stuck in a mouldy old frame?
You can buy them in Smithfield at 10p a throw,
So what's all the fuss about I'd like to know?
And what's all this talk about barbed wire and smoke?
Sure you shouldn't have joined if you can't take a joke!
We don't give a damn where the red poppies dance,
Oh, Willie Mac Bride, will you give us a chance!
CHORUS
© Crawford Howard

(Schitheredee version appears in Appendix 2, page 240. The song can be heard sung by everybody.

WILLIE MAC BRIDE YOU BASTARD YOU
(Schitheredee version)

Oh, youse know that big long song about Willie MacBride,
Well, to tell yis the god's truth, it turns me inside,
You'll hear it on the Shankhill, you'll hear't on the Falls,
And mostly from people who can't sing at all,
You go out to the pub on a Saturday night,
For a pint and the crack, a-and things are all right
'Till some boy with his shirt out
Slumps down by your side —and says:
"Zing-zzz z'wunn zbouzz Wllee Mmm-Bride,"

Ah, you say you don't know it (but this will not do)
For his plan all along has been to sing it to you.
He knocks over your drink, and takes off in a key
That wasn't constructed for Pava-Rotti;
And with the lines grinding on, Oh, the horror gets worse,
As it slowly sinks in—that he knows every verse.
With his arm round your shoulder, by now he's your friend—and
He's determined to sing this damn thing to the end.
CHORUS:

Did he sing the song badly?
Did they gulp their pints madly?
Did we all fall asleep before we'd finished our round?
Did the barstaff cry, "Last drinks" to stir us?
Did the punters cry, "Thank God it's o-o-o-ver"?
You slip out to the jacks for a quart'r of an hour,
Kill time at the TV set out in the Bar,
And then you sneak back thinking he might have tired,
But he's still choking on gas, tangled up in barbed wire;
And for ten minutes more he continues this rum
Again, and again, and again till you can't
Care that he's up to his oxters in gutters in trench-es or give
Two lupp'ny damns where the red poppies dance.
CHORUS

Oh, Willie MacBride why the hell did you die?
The trouble you'd have saved if you'd come back alive.
If you'd got a good job, or signed on the b'roo—
We wouldn't have to endure this ould mush about you.
Aye but maybe it's better for you that you're dead
With the green fields of France piled up over your head;
For the trouble you've caused us since that day you died,
Oh, rusty shrapnel's too good for you, Willie MacBride.
CHORUS

And you—Eric Bogle, just what was your game?
White crosses mark out the road to your fame.
Could you not guess the Fureys might drive us insane?
Can you not call them off?—Jasus, we're not to blame!
And why d'you complain about shellfire and smoke?
Sure with PA and cig'rettes, the pubs are no joke.
Where we drink to his mem'ry each weekend we're broke
Makin' Willie Mac Bride's fans consumptive ould soaks.
CHORUS

© Crawford Howard, variations Fintan Vallely