Welcome, welcome, every guest. Welcome to our music fest. Music is our only cheer. Fills both soul and ravished ear. Sacred muse teach us the road, Sweetest notes to be explored! Softly swell the trembling aire To complete our concert fair.

Chorus: The lark in the morning, she rises off her nest. She flies through the air with the dew all on her breast. And like the jolly ploughboy, she whistles and she sings. She goes home in the morning with the dew all on her wings. Oh Roger the ploughboy, he is a dashing blade. He goes whistling and singing for yonder leafy shade. He met with dark-eyed Susan, she's handsome, I declare. She is far more enticing than the birds all in the air. As they were coming home from the rakes of the town, The meadow being mown and the grass had been cut down. As they should chance to tumble all in the new-mown hay, 'Oh, it's kiss me now or never,' this bonnie lass would say. Here's a health to you ploughboys, wherever you may be, That like to have a bonnie lass a-sitting on your knee. With a pint of good strong porter, he'll whistle and he'll sing, And the ploughboy is as happy as a prince or a king.

Let the farmer praise his grounds, let the huntsman praise his hounds, Let the shep herd praise his dewy scented lawn. But I'm more wise than they, spend each happy night and day With my darling little cruiscín lán, lán, lán, lán, My darling little cruiscín lán. Chorus: Gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín, Slainte geal mo mhúirnín, Gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán, lán, lán, lán, Gradh mo chroide mo cruiscín lán. Immortal and divine, king Bacchus, god of wine, Create me by adoption your own son. In hopes that you'll comply, that my glass shall ne'er run dry, Nor my darling little cruiscín lán, lán, lán, lán, My darling little cruiscín lán. When cruel death appears in a few but happy years, He'll say, oh won't you come along with me. I'll say begone, you knave, for king Bacchus gave me lave To take another cruiscín lán, lán, lán, lán, To take another cruiscín lán. So fill your glasses high, let's not part with lips so dry, The lark proclaims it now to be the dawn. And since we can't remain, let us shortly meet again, To take another cruiscín lán, lán, lán, lán, To take another cruiscín lán. Translation of the chorus: Love of my heart, my little jug, Health to you my darling, Love of my heart, my little full jug.

I have seen the lark soar high at morn, To sing up in the blue. I have heard the blackbird pipe its song, The thrush and the linnet too. But none of them can sing so sweet, My singing bird as you. Ah, my singing bird as you. If I could lure my singing bird From its warm and cozy nest, If I could catch my singing bird, I would warm it on my breast. And on my heart, my singing bird Would sing itself to rest. Ah, would sing itself to rest.

Tim Finnigan lived in Walker street, a gentleman Irish mighty odd. He'd a beautiful brogue so rich and sweet, and to rise in the world, he carried a hod. Now Tim had a bit of the tippling way, with a love for the liquor he was born. To help him on his way each day, he'd a drop of the créatúr every morn. One morning, Tim felt rather full, his head felt funny and it made him shake. He fell off the ladder and he broke his skull, and they carried him home, his corpse to wake. They wrapped him up in a nice clean sheet and laid him out upon the bed, With a bottle of whiskey at his feet and a bottle of porter at his head. His friends assembled at the wake, and Mrs Finnigan called for lunch. First, she brought out tea and cake, then pipes, tobacco, and brandy punch. Then Biddy Malone began to cry, 'Such a nice clean corpse did you ever see? Ah, Tim, mo mhúirnín, why did you die?' 'Will you hold your gob?' says Paddy McGee. Then Peggy O'Connor took up the job, 'Ah, Biddy,' says she, 'You're wrong, I'm sure.' Then Biddy gives her a belt on the gob and sends her sprawling on the floor. Civil war did soon engage, t'was woman to woman and man to man. Shillelagh law was all the rage, and a row and a ruction soon began. Mickey Maloney ducked his head when a bottle of Jameson flew at him. It missed, and landing on the bed, the whiskey scattering over Tim. Tim revives, and see how he rises, Tim rising up upon the bed, Saying 'Whirl your whiskey around like blazes, D'anam don diabhal, do you think I'm dead?'

As I rode out in Nottamun Town, Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down, Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down, To show me the way to fair Nottamun Town. Met the king and the queen, and a company more, A-riding behind and a-marching before, Met a strange looking drummer a-beating a drum, With his hands in his pockets come marching along. I rode a grey horse that was called a grey mare, With a grey mane and tail, green stripe down her back. Grey mane and grey tail, green stripe down her back. There was no hair on her that wasn't coal black. She stood so still she threw me to the dirt, She tore my hide and bruised my shirt. From saddle to stirrup, I mounted again, And on my ten toes I rode over the plain. As I rode out in Nottamun Town, Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down, Not a soul would look up, not a soul would look down, To show me the way to fair Nottamun Town.

As I went awalking one morning in May, I spied a young couple who fondly did stray. And one was a young maid, so sweet and so fair, and the other was a soldier, and a brave grenadier.  Chorus: And they kissed so sweet and comforting, as they clung to each other. They went arm in arm along the road, like a sister and a brother. They went arm in arm along the road, 'til they came to a stream, And they both sat down together for to hear the nightingale sing. And out of his backpack, he took a fine fiddle, And he played her such a merry tune as you ever did hear. And he played her such a merry tune as valley did ring, And they both sat down together for to hear the nightingale sing.

Vänner och fränder de lade om råd Hur de skulle gifta bort sin fränka i år Uti rosen, lade om råd Hur de skulle gifta bort sin fränka i år Dig vill vi giva en kungason till man Som haver mera guld än lille Roland haver land Uti rosen, kungason till man Som haver mera guld än lille Roland haver land De drucko i dagar de drucko i två Men inte ville bruden åt sängarne gå Uti rosen, drucko i två Men inte ville bruden åt sängarne gå Så lyster det Jungfrun åt högan loftet gå Så springer hon den vägen mot sjöastranden låg Uti rosen, högan loftet gå Så springer hon den vägen mot sjöastranden låg Så bjödo de henne i skeppet in Och bjöd henne att dricka båd mjöd och vin Uti rosen, skeppet in Och bjöd henne att dricka båd mjöd och vin Jag ser jag ser på dina vita fingrar små Att vigselring ej suttit på den förrän igår Uti rosen, vita fingrar små Att vigselring ej suttit på den förrän igår Jag ser jag ser på dina guldgula hår Att brudekrans ej suttit på dem förrän igår Uti rosen, guldgula hår Att brudekrans ej suttit på dem förrän igår Och Jungfrun hon lägger sig vid lille Rolands sida Hon känner sig varken sorgsen eller kvida Uti rosen, lille Rolands sida Hon känner sig varken sorgsen eller kvida Translation: Friends and kinsfolk met to deliberate To whom would they marry their kinswoman this year Rosy youth, they deliberated To whom would they marry their kinswoman this year We want you to wed the king's son Who has more gold than poor Roland has land Rosy youth, wed the king's son Who has more gold than poor Roland has land They drank for days, they drank for two, But the bride wouldn't to the chamber go Rosy youth, they drank for two But the bride wouldn't to the chamber go And the maiden went up to the high loft And ran down the path to the broad sea shore Rosy youth, went to the high loft And ran down the path to the broad sea shore And she was invited on board the ship And there they lavished her with both mead and wine Rosy youth, on board ship And there they lavished her with both mead and wine I see I see on your small white fingers The wedding ring has not been there for long Rosy youth, small white fingers The wedding ring has not been there for long I see I see on your golden hair That the bridal wreath was not there before yesterday Rosy youth, golden hair That the bridal wreath was not there before yesterday And now the maiden lays at poor Roland's side She feels neither sorrow nor anguish Rosy youth, at poor Roland's side She feels neither sorrow nor anguish

Heigh Ho: Heigh ho, nobody home. Meat nor drink no money have I none. Still I will be merry, merry, merry, Heigh ho, nobody home. Bird: Ah, poor bird, mourn'st the tree, Where sweetly thou did'st warble in thy wand'ring free. Ah, poor bird, take your flight, Far above the sorrows of this sad night. Ah, poor bird, as you fly, Can you see the dawn of tomorrow's sky? Rose: Rose, Rose, Rose, Rose, Will I ever see thee wed? I will marry at thy will sire, At thy will. Soul Cakes: Soul, soul, soul, cakes. Please good madam, a soul cake, An apple, a plum, a peach or a cherry, Any good thing to make us all merry. One for Peter, two for Paul. Three for him who made us all.

Good night, my lonely, I'll send you my dove, To sing you to sleep; you will find love. In the world of reality, far above, You will find someone to love. Chorus: Good night, my lonely, good night, good night. I'll always be here for you. Good night, my lonely, good night, good night. Good night, good night, good night. Good night, my lonely, it won't be long, Remember the wisdom from your dream song. Be patient, I say to you, wait and see, Someone who loves you, there will soon be. Good night, my lonely, for lonely you are, Even though I'm never far. I'll see you each day, if just in your dreams, I'll always be here for you, cold as life seems.