Street Ballad

O Lord we lived in lovely times
along the Liffey shore,
and when we were told our time was up
we asked for a little more,
demanded bloody more.

Me daddy was out in Easter Week,
he went out with an old Boer gun,
me mammy tore him in ten little strips
when the shootin' and killin' was done,
when the English had finally won.

Have ye no thought at all for the childer,
and the rent at five shillins the week?
Bangin away, couldn't ye've saved a few bullets
and sold them for sixpence each,
flogged 'em off for a tanner each?

Ah sure, Dolly dear, wasn't it revvylution,
wasn't it history, girl, ye can't count the cost!
What was I to do, them bowsies firin' away at me?
Couldn't ye bleedin' well think of the cost, says she,
couldn't ye count up the pennies we lost?

One bullet, says she, buys four pints of milk,
instead of paper the babbies'da had a nappy,
yer rifle'da been sold right back to the Brits
and the bleedin' lot of us'da been happy,
all of us, some of us, some time.