Песня «Changing Your Demeanour / The Harvest Home»
исполнителя Spiritual seasons.
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• Ulvdalir

  Spiritual seasons

  

  Oh, me name is Mick McGuire and I'll quickly tell to you Of a young girl I admired called Katy Donahue She was fair and fat and forty and believe me when I say That whenever I came in at the door you could hear her mammy say: "Johnny, get up from the fire, get up and give the man a sate Can't you see it's Mr McGuire and he's courting your sister Kate Ah, you know very well he owns a farm a wee bit out of the town Arragh, get up out of that, you impudent brat, and let Mr McGuire sit down" Now, the first time that I met her was at a dance at Tarmagee And I very kindly asked her if she'd dance a step with me Then I asked if I could see her home if I'd be going her way And whenever I come in at the door you could hear her mammy say: "Johnny, get up from the fire, get up and give the man a sate Can't you see it's Mr McGuire and he's courting your sister Kate Ah, you know very well he owns a farm a wee bit out of the town Arragh, get up out of that, you impudent brat, and let Mr McGuire sit down" Ah, but now that we are married, sure her mother's changed her mind Just because I spent the legacy her father left behind She hasn't got the decency to bid me time of day Now whenever I come in at the door you'd hear the old one say: "Johnny, come up to the fire, come up, you're sitting in the draft Can't you see it's old McGuire and he nearly drives me daft Ah, I don't know what gets into him, for he's always on the tare Arragh, just sit where you are and never you dare to give old McGuire the chair" Diddle e dowdle-owdle-owdle diddle e dowdle-owdle-ow Diddle e dowdle-owdle-owdle diddle e dowdle-owdle-ow "Ah, I don't know what gets into him, for he's always on the tare Arragh, just sit where you are and never you dare to give old McGuire the chair"

  
• Some Say the Devil Is Dead

  Spiritual seasons

  

  Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead Some say the devil is dead, and buried in Killarney More say he rose again, more say he rose again More say he rose again and joined the British Army Feed the pigs and milk the cow, and milk the cow, and milk the cow Feed the pigs and milk the cow, early in the morning Cock your leg, oh Paddy dear, Paddy dear I'm over here Cock your leg, oh Paddy dear, it's time to stop your yawning Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead Some say the devil is dead, and buried in Killarney More say he rose again, more say he rose again More say he rose again and joined the British Army Katie she is tall and thin, she's tall and thin, and tall and thin Katie she is tall and thin, and like her drops of brandy Drinks it in the bed each night, drinks it in the bed each night Drinks it in the bed each night, it makes her nice and randy Some say the devil is dead, the devil is dead, the devil is dead Some say the devil is dead, and buried in Killarney More say he rose again, more say he rose again More say he rose again and joined the British Army The wife she has the hairy thing, a hairy thing, a hairy thing The wife she has the hairy thing, she showed it to me on Sunday She bought it in the furrier's shop, bought it in the furrier's shop She bought it in the furriers's shop, it's going back on Monday

  
• Les Prisons De Nantes

  Spiritual seasons

  

  
• Foggy Dew

  Spiritual seasons

  

  As down the glen one Easter morn To a city fair rode I, Their armed lines of marching men In squadrons passed me by. No pipe did hum, no battle drum Did sound its loud tattoo But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swells Rang out in the foggy dew. Right proudly high in Dublin town Hung they out a flag of war. It was better to die beneath an Irish sky Then at Suvla or Sud el Bar. And from the plains of Royal Meath Strong men came hurrying through; While Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns Sailed in through the foggy dew. 'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that «small nations might be free»; Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea. Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha Their graves we’d keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew. The bravest fell, and the requiem bell Rang mournfully and clear For those who died that Easter-tide In the springing of the year. While the world did gaze with deep amaze At those fearless men but few Who bore the fight that freedom's light Might shine through the foggy dew. And back through the glen I rode again And my heart with grief was sore For I parted then with valiant men Whom I never shall see more But to and fro In my dreams I go And I kneel and pray for you For slavery fled Oh, glorious dead When you fell in the foggy dew.

  
• Gaita

  Spiritual seasons