The oul' bodhran's gettin' some quare stick! Here's a wee attempt to redress the balance.

Bit o' whisht, there!

And while I'm at it, could some craytur get me a bottle and half-un? My oul' gaper's that dry you'd think I'd been lickin' Right Guard!

Good luck to all here, now, barrin' thon goat
Who's still proudly wearin' his oul' shaggy coat
We'll soon put the bleatin' clane out o' his head
We'll skin him and tan him the instant he's dead
We'll cure his oul' hide and we'll gaily tattoo
And all round the rim we'll scratch seán nós abú
Such drummin' you'll never yet hear nor yet see
As we'll raise from the goats around Tandragee

So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank
Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank
But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee
Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee

You've heard of the famed Cozy Powell I'm sure
And oul' Buddy Rich is a rhythmical hoor
But give an oul' bodhran to one of thon two
And the buggers would not know a damn what to do
They'd houl the oul' b'ater like it was a club
And leather away, they would pound and they'd drub
But the noise that would issue would grieve your poor ears
And cause the trad player to weep bitter tears

So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank
Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank
But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee
Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee

Ringo McDonagh can hit 'er a welt
And Gino Lupari can give a quare belt
(They say when he dies that they'll cure his big tum
And cover the frame of an oul' Lambeg drum!)
Christy can patter and Kathy can rowl
And vary the tone when they give 'er a boul
Oul' Malachy's drums are an grá geal mo chroí
When sporting fine hides from roun' Tandragee

So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank
Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank
But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee
Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee

So not to detain you I'll end my oul' song
The oul' bodhran's been slagged and I think that it's wrong
This percussive oul' instrument's got a bad name
That attaches to hide and to tipper and frame
In the wrong hands, it's the devil's own curse
Like the bongo, the djembe, or instruments worse
But played with great feeling, it fills you with glee
And no more gleeful hide than from Tandragee

So here's to the goats that are smelly and rank
Their oul' matted beards are all crusty and lank
But their hides add great value to diddle-ee-dee
Those hairy buck-goats around Tanderagee