'Twas in the of thirty-nine, when the sky was full of lead When Hitler was heading for Poland and Paddy for Holyhead Come all you pincher laddies and you lost distance men Don't ever work for McAlpine, for Wimpy, nor John Lang For you'll stand behind the mixer, till your skin has turned to tan And they'll good of you Paddy, with your boat fair in your hand Oh, the crack was good in Cricklewood and the wouldn't leave the Crown With glasses flyin' and Biddy's cryin', sure Paddy was goin' to town Oh mother dear I'm over here, I'll never coming back What keeps me here is rake of beer the ladies and the crack I come from the County Kerry, the lands of eggs and bacon And if you think I'll eat your fish and chips, Bejasus, you're mistaken
Somehow I don't think this song would ever be sung in an Irish bar here in the States... even on March 17th. Go on Home!
