American Old Time Song Lyrics: 38 On The Way Home From Rileys

Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 38

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On the Way Home from Riley's.
Copyright, 1892, by Geo. Trimble Davidson.
Words and Music by David Kilburn.

There is a man named Riley, and he has a country sate
Just out of town, not far away, 'tis ilegant and nate;
He sint out invitations to his neighbors one and all.
And gave a feet shampeter, which he wound up wid a ball.
We had some sports upon the lawn, and played a funny game;
I don't quite ricollect, but think, Long Dinnis was the name;
And thin we wint into a tint and had a hit of lunch,
And iv'ry man got quarrelsome wid drinking whiskey punch.

And whin we come home that night,
Ivery man full as a can,
And oh, my, what an ilegant fight
On the way home from Riley's.

McCann began the trouble on the start, by saying how
O'Grady danced the Irish reel no betther than a cow;
O'Grady got his timper up and swore at Pat McCann,
And sid he'd take no guff from him, or any other man.
O'Shaughnesey thin tuk the flure on purpose for to say.
He'd just as lief fight ony man as ask the time of day;
And thin the fight got gineral, and heads began to crack,
Until we batthered through the flure of Hennessy's new hack.

We couldn't tell friends from foes,
Donnybrook fair couldn't compare;
And O'Grady got hurt on the nose,
On the way home from Riley's.

The horses they took fright and kicked the driver off the sate,
And he got mixed up in the fight and laid out very nate:
Our coats got torn, our hats got smashed, our eyes got black and blue.
Until O'Grady hollered "Fire," "Police" and "Murder," too.
By some unlucky chance there was a cop upon his bate.
And he began to shoot his pistol up and down the strate:
And thin the hose-cart, number two, came tearing up the track.
And turned a three-inch strame alover Hennessy's new hack.

And we slept that night in jail.
Wet to the skin, all takin in;
Not one could be found to go bail,
On the way home from Riley's.

And when the morning broke we were a sorry sight to view,
Wid broken heads and battered eyes, and noses black and blue;
No starch lift in our collars, and our coats a total wreck,
O'Grady wid no hat at all, the rim around his neck.
We got tin dollars each and costs, and paid it wid a will,
For sure 'twas worth that much and more, for such a lovely mill;
And not a mother's son of us would ask to have it back;
And sixty dollars was the bill to mind the broken hack.

Oh, that was a fine old night,
Ivery man full as a can;
And oh, my, what an ilegant fight,
On the way home from Riley's.
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