Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

surely there’s an Irish equivalent of this one?

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Yep. It’s called “Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be priests”.

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

that’s excellent… “cause their always alone and they’re married to Rome…” (unless they’re the Craggy Island type)

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be anywhere near any part of a goat.

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

“to be anywhere near any part of a goat”

Does that include kid gloves?

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

There’s a very appropriate one written by Johnny Moynihan

Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
Don’t let ’em bash bodhrans and sleep in their suits
Leave ’em play boxes, concertinas and flutes
Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
They’ll end up unconscious
Or start throwing punches
Even at someone they lo-ove

Fleadh Cowboys aren’t easy to love, but they’re easy to find,
You just follow the trail of old chip bags that they leave behind,
And you won’t have gone far, til there in a bar,
You’ll see a man with a glass in each hand
One eye out for the ride, singing Willie McBride,
I’m sorry but you’ve found your man

Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
Don’t let ’em play guitars and chat up the Dutch
Leave ’em be pipers and fiddlers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
They’re rowdy, they’re thick, and they’ll end up bein’ sick
Even on someone they lo-ove

Fleadh Cowboys drink Colt 45, they love Smithwicks and Stout (Guinness no doubt)
And they love fancy shirts that they wear with the tails hangin’ out
And you might as well love them, ’cause you won’t escape them,
You might think that you’ve done so and then,
Singin’ Waltzing Matilda with his arm around Brunhilde,
I’m sorry, but you’ve found him again

Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
Don’t let ’em bash bodhrans and sleep in their suits
Leave ’em play boxes, concertinas and flutes
Mamas, don’t let your babies turn into fleadh cowboys
They’ll end up unconscious
Or “screaming yiz C*nts yiz”
Even at someone they lo-ove

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Wonderful, I’m going to learn it : )

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

“Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be anywhere near any part of a goat.”

What about all the bodhrán players? 🙂

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

They weren’t loved by their mothers.

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

Sorry, I have nothing useful to say here, but can I just interject - ‘They’ll end up unconscious / Or “screaming yiz C*nts yiz”’ is absolutely the best rhyme I have ever encountered in any song or poem anywhere.

I’ve Got Friends In Low Places

As long as the subject has been opened…

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

@Joe CSS…Wonderful stuff sir.
On a similar note Peter Cooke’s “national anthem of Whales” surely deserves a mention…

"Whales unite, whales will fight
Whales will go on eating plankton
Whales we are nice, whales full of spice
We don’t like being w***ed on".

Re: Mammas don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys

@ MorganYYZ

HAHA, that totally made my day! 😀