The Mudcat Café TM
Thread #53303 Message #822172
Posted By: Snuffy
09-Nov-02 - 09:05 AM
Thread Name: DTStudy: Hot Ash-Pelt (Hot Asphalt)
Subject: RE: DTStudy: Hot Ash-Pelt (Hot Asphalt)
Vectis' version is nearly identical to the Dubliner's version: there are differences in almost every single line, but overall none are significant. The folk process seems to have been quite active with this song.
Good evening all my jolly lads. I'm glad to find you well,
If you'll gather all round me now the story I will tell,
For I've got a situation and begorra and begob,
I can whisper I've a weekly wage of nineteen bob.
'Tis twelve months come October since I left my native home,
After helping in Killarney, boys, to bring the harvest home,
But now I wear a Gansey and around my waist a belt,
I'm the gaffer of the squad that makes the hot asphalt.
Well we laid it in the hollows and we laid it in the flat.
And if it doesn't last forever, sure, I swear I'll eat my hat.
Well, I've wandered up and down the world but sure I've never felt
Any surface that was equal to the hot asphalt...
The other night a copper comes and he says to me "McGuire,
Would you kindly let me light me pipe down at your boiler fire?"
Well, he planks himself right down in front with hobnails up 'till eight,
Well, says I "Me decent man, you'd better go and mind your beat."
He ups and yells "I'm down on you! I'm up to all your pranks!
Don't I know you for a traitor from the Tipperary ranks!"
Boys, I hit right from the shoulder, and I gave him such a belt,
That I knocked him into the boiler full of hot asphalt.
We quickly dragged him out again and we threw him in the tub,
And with soap and boiler water we began to rub and scrub.
But divil a thing of tar came off and it turned as hard as stone,
And with every other rub sure you could hear the copper groan.
"I'm thinking," says O'Riley "That he's looking like Old Nick,
And burn me if I'm not inclined to clean him with my pick."
"Now," Says I "It would be easier to boil him 'till he melts
And to stir him nice and easy in the hot asphalt."
You may talk about your sailor lads, ballad singers and the rest,
Your shoemakers and your tailors what do please the ladies best.
The only ones who know the way the flinty heart to melt,
Are the lads around the boiler making hot asphalt.
With rubbing and with scrubbing sure I caught my death of cold,
And for scientific purposes my body it was sold.
In the Kelvingrove Museum, my boys, I'm hanging in my pelt,
As a monument to the Irish making hot asphalt.