Lyr Req: I've Got Rings on My Fingers

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: I've Got Rings on My Fingers
From: GUEST,keberoxu
Date: 07 Jul 20 - 10:15 AM

Don, this song is represented at the Mudcat on at least three other, older threads.

Probably one of those threads already has opened a discussion on this very question.

I think one of the threads is titled
"Chas & Dave" because they performed the song.

One professional act which took on the challenge of this song
is Joan Morris, singer, and William Bolcom, pianist/accompanist
(husband and wife).
I heard them sing this song in Boston, of all places,
where the chorus fairly shook the walls
as the audience joined in with them.
As I recall, the third verse was omitted entirely,
and there were some slight text variations
on Verses One and Two.

Subject: Lyr Req: I've Got Rings on My Fingers
From: DonMeixner
Date: 07 Jul 20 - 08:16 AM

I really don't know where else to fit this question. How would you take the overt racism out of this grand old music hall song and fit it into to the present? I love performing it but not with the offensive lyric.

Thanks

Don Meixner

I'VE GOT RINGS ON MY FINGERS
(R.P. Weston and F.J. Barnes)

Now Jim O'Shea was cast away
Upon an Indian Isle.
The natives there they liked his hair,
They liked his Irish smile,
So made him chief Panjandrum,
The Nabob of them all.
They called him Jij-ji-boo Jhai,
And rigged him out so gay,
So he wrote to Dublin Bay,
To his sweetheart, just to say:

CHORUS:
Sure, I've got rings on my fingers, bells on my toes,
Elephants to ride upon, my little Irish Rose;
So come to your Nabob, and next Patrick's Day,
Be Mistress Mumbo Jumbo Jij-ji-boo J. O'Shea.
Across the sea went Rose Magee
To see her Nabob grand.
He sat within his palanquin,
And when she kissed his hand,
He led her to his harem,
Where he had wives galore.
She started shedding a tear;
Said he, "Now have no fear,
I'm keeping these wives here
Just for ornament, my dear."

In emerald green he robed his queen,
To share with him his throne.
'Mid eastern charms and waving palms
They'd shamrocks, Irish grown,
Sent all the way from Dublin
To Nabob J. O'Shea
But in his palace so fine
Should Rose for Ireland pine,
With smiles her face will shine
When he murmurs, "Sweetheart mine"