DAVY DAW

Woa! are you there my bonny mare? Your whinny seems to say — “By Bealach forge and Creagach fair We'll gallop hard to-day!”

You champ your snaffle all to foam, And fleck your counter bright; But now we bid adieu to home Until the fall of night.

Davy Daw, Davy Daw, with his early horn, His hunting-crop and bag of corn — His heart's as merry as a mottle-thrush That sings all day in the hawthorn bush.

Come hither, Bran of ancient seed, And lick your master's hand; I swear no dog of purer breed Is found in all the land.

Brave scion of Cuchullain's branch, Well do you, hound, uphold The prowess and the courage staunch That marked your line of old.

Davy Daw, Davy Daw, my merry man, I love toast crab in a pewter can. Our tastes are like as like can be — But a measure of ale in the can for me!

The wind is low and scent is good, And Mada's on the green: He hid his head in Cratla Wood Since early yestere'en.

You beat the bush from peep of light, And set the whins afire; And now the tory is in sight, You've got your heart's desire.

Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a crab well-browned In the smiling flood of a cruiscin drowned. Give me, sirree, my crab and ale, And bog or batter, my heart wo n't fail!

The sun is out, and Davy's up, And hounds are on the run: It's hard he'll earn his stirrup-cup Before the day is done!

A jolly life we hunters lead Upon the saddle high: We see no devil in the bead, And drain our noggins dry.

Davy Daw, Davy Daw is a huntsman bold; He's more to me than a kingdom's gold. A hind for dinner and a hare to sup — O that's what I get when Davy's up!

The fox is fast upon the hill, He's wary in the dale; But I will ride to Penny Mill Before I lose his tail.

That brush was born to make a cap For gallant Eoin Og; And I will have it, hang-or-hap, As sure as I'm a rogue.

Davy Daw, Davy Daw, for a morning chase, With an Irish blood to make the pace: He's last to check and first to view, And hard to the death he leads his queue.

Day in we hunt the spinney fox, Day out the rapparee; His cave is in the broken rocks Above the Correi-buidhe.

A shameful thing, the ladies say, To hunt your fellow-man; But follow him till hard at bay It's just the ladies can!

Davy Daw, Davy Daw, the brush is won! A good job, sir, our work is done. Whitefoot went lame this side o’ the mill, And I'm as dry as an old lime-kiln.

Red rogue, he'll kill his goose no more: Close work it was, for the light is o'er. Just close work, sir, but the Dub's close to, With a can for me and a crab for you!