Terry O'Rann was a fine young man.
And from a boy it was his joy
To tipple and drink, and lovingly wink
At all the gay lasses in Derry;
And when his first love be was making.
The girls for him had such a taking,
If he'd just wink his eye, och, wouldn't they sigh,
You'd think all their backs was a breaking.
He took whisky punch every night to his lunch.
All the thoughts of his love to bury,
And then he would roam far away from his home,
To the grief of the lasses of Derry.
Day and night, 'twas his delight to play
This game, without any shame,
Till stopped by death, which took his breath,
And killed him with whisky in Derry,
His loss to the lasses was grievous,
But from death there is nothing can save us,
And every soul in terror did howl, saying:
Och. Terry, why did ye lave us?
That night at the wake every head it did ache,
And when they went with the coffin to bury,
A crowd was seen, that covered the green
In the black-looking churchyard in Derry.
The Mayor of the town was a man of renown,
He was a shoemaker, a tailor,
A baker, a doctor besides.
And undertaker to all the people in Derry;
And when they were all merry making,
Himself to his bed be was taking.
When Terry's dead ghost stood at his bedpost,
Says he: 'Tis a shame to the waking.
Nor I don't ask your lave to come from the grave,
Your conduct is shocking, och, very,
I say to your face, you mast alter my case,
Or I'll " tell all the people in Derry.
I was buried to-day, but where I lay
The ground was damp and gave me the cramp,
All over ray body the wet did get,
There was water enough for a ferry;
And besides my feelings to barrow,
I was doubled up, as if in a barrow,
I was wedded in tight bound, I couldn't turn 'round,
My coffin was too devilish narrow.
It was made of bad stuff, not half long enough,
And as sure as my name it is Terry,
I will not lay quiet, but I'll kick up a riot,
I'll haunt all the people in Derry.
Pray, says the Mayor, now take a chair.
If you'll allow, I'll measure you now
For a new coffin, longer and broader, and stronger,
If that'll make your heart merry.
Then the ghost brightened up in a jiffy.
His frolicsome spirits grew frisky,
Says he: With pleasure you may take my measure,
And I'll take a measure of whiskey;
For you needn't be told that the grave's very cold,
And doesn't agree with poor Terry,
I'm a comical elf, so I'll drink a good health
To all the live lasses in Derry.
While the bottle and glass merrily pass,
And Terry was ripe for a song or a fight.
The clock struck one, and ended the fun
Of the frolicsome corpse of poor Terry;
For the sound of the clock wits a warning,
That no ghost e'er was scorning,
So tipsy and drunk away he slunk,
To get into his grave before morning.
But the old women say that he missed his way,
For the coffin they did bury
Was quite empty found in the turned-up ground,
To the grief of the lasses in Derry.
The truth to suppose, for there's nobody knows,
The ghost ran hard to gain the churchyard,
But to his distress, he got into a mess.
By meeting some blackguards in Derry;
Surrounded in every direction,
No shillelagh had he for protection,
So they, in a crack, popped him in a sack,
And carried him off for dissection.
He told all the house, he was but a poor ghost,
But they wouldn't believe him, poor Terry,
With hearts hard as stones, cut the flesh off his bones,
And anatomised Terry of Derry.