On the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and six
We set sail from the port quay of Cork
We were sailing away with a Cargo of bricks
For the grand City Hall of New York
We'd a near-leaking craft, it was rigged fore and aft
And how the trade winds drove her
She had twenty-three masts and she stood several blasts,
And they called her the Irish Rover
There was Bobby McGee from the banks of the Leith
There was Hogan from county Tyrone
There was John D McGirk, who was scared stiff of work,
And a chap from Westmeath named Malone
There was Slugger O'Toole, who was drunk as a rule,
And Fighting Bill Tracy from Dover,
And a man, Mick McCann, from the banks of the Bann
Was the skipper of the Irish Rover
We had one million bags of the best Sligo rags,
We had two million barrels of pone
We had three million bales of old nanny goats' tails,
We had four million barrels of bone
We had five million hogs,
And six million dogs,
Seven million barrels of porter
We had eight million sides of poor blind horses' hides
In the hold of the Irish Rover
We had sailed seven years when the mizzens broke out
And the ship lost her way in the fog
And that whale of a crew was reduced down to two
Twas meself and the captain's old dog
Well, the ship struck a rock, and Lord what a shock!
I nearly tumbled over
Turned nine times around and the poor old dog was drowned
I'm the last of the Irish Rover