Ian Barksdale

tunebook 340 tunes.

THE PUB MUSICIAN’S COMPLAINT
(Don Murphy from Cork)
Say two acts of contrition for the poor pub musician.
If I have a son that’s one thing he won’t be.
He has to put up with chancers and trickies and schisters
And publicans dropping ten quid of the fee.
But the worst of them all is that drunken auld know-all,
That musical expert and self-made MC.
So if you’ve any notion to make a commotion
I beg your attention you give now to me.

CURFÁ
So come all you fleadh cowboys. I’ll do things my way.
I’ll do what I want when I sing and I play.
And if this you don’t like, then get up on your bike,
For ‘tis equal to me if you go or you stay.

Now we’re sitting down here and we’re playing a few tunes.
‘Tis the grandest auld session that we’ve played in years.
But as God is my judge there’ll be some ignorant auld moron,
And in no time at all we’ll be all bored to tears
With his “Can’t you play this one” and “Won’t you play that one?
Play some piece of rock and we’ll liven this place.”
Well, says I, “Me auld stock, sure you wouldn’t know rock
If it came up and clocked you straight into the face.”

Now the same individual won’t be there when you start
But he’ll surely be there when you’ve finished your stint,
For he must make a tour of all other locations
And he’ll only come in when he can’t get more drink.
He’ll exhort you to play just to keep the bar open.
He’ll sing an auld dirge without rhythm or rhyme,
Some nonsensical drivel that he can’t remember,
But still he’ll keep singin’ the same auld three lines.

So come all you fleadh cowboys. I’ll do things my way.
I’ll do what I want when I sing and I play.
And if this you don’t like, then get up on your bike,
For ‘tis equal to me if you go or you stay.

Well, every known creature has a female equivalent,
And this one’s no different, the insulting auld cow.
She’s as drunk as a lord and she’ll sing in discord
And she’ll wonder why you can’t accompany her now.
But meself having manners, I’ll say, “I don’t know it,
And beside the time’s gone and we’ll have to go home”
When what I’d like to say is “I don’t want to play,
So would you kindly feck off and leave me alone.”

So come all you fleadh cowboys. I’ll do things my way.
I’ll do what I want when I sing and I play.
And if this you don’t like, then get up on your bike,
For ‘tis equal to me if you go or you stay

So to all you auld messers, give us proper order
When we play a tune or when we sing a song,
For it took dedication and it wasn’t learnt easy
And we’re not making them up as we go along.
If you think you can do it, you’re welcome to try it.
We’ll pack up our bags and we’ll leave you alone.
If not, then shut up and let others enjoy it,
And we’ll all be contented when we go on home.

So come all you fleadh cowboys. I’ll do things my way.
I’ll do what I want when I sing and I play.
And if this you don’t like, then get up on your bike,
For ‘tis equal to me if you go or you stay