SONG LYRICS

HANGING AROUND THE TOWN

How many years have you spent in this town

Walking up Shop and walking back down?

How many times have you gone to the pub,

A pint of porter or a bit of grub?

Lots of people know you to see

But they don’t know your name or who you might be.

The years they are passing, the waste is a crime

And what have you got to show for your time

Spent walking around, hanging around

Walking around the town,

Walking around, hanging around

Walking up and down

Does anyone care that you wrote a few songs,

Threw them away thinking they were all wrong?

Does anyone know that you started a book,

Wrote the first page and then got stuck?

You feel there is something that you should create

But now you’re afraid that you’ve left it too late.

The time it is passing put you haven’t a clue

And can’t get a handle on what you should do,

So you go walking around, hanging around,

Walking around the town,

Walking around, hanging around,

Walking up and down.

Then one night you give the pub a miss,

No fun anymore just going on the piss,

Down by the Corrib there is a high tide

Looks like a very good place to hide

The moon shining full on the old town clock

Taxies are passing – its such a short drop… drop….drop …

Then her voice at your shoulder gives you a fright

Fancy meeting you down here tonight

I’ve seen you walking around, hanging around

Walking around the town

I’ve watched you walking around hanging around

walking up and down.

So they went walking around, hanging around

Walking around the town,

They went walking around, hanging around,

Walking up and down

 

THE FIDDLER

Yes, he could make his fiddle sing,

And weave a web of pleasure,

For us, just a passing fling,

For him, life’s only measure.

A song could not be left unsung

Or a tune be left unplayed,

As time slipped by we moved along,

He always got delayed.

But do not think he did not see

Or understand the price,

The tunes they would demand their fee,

A dance would not suffice.

The tunes they would demand their fee

Bright morning at the door,

Lost in daylight’s clarity

Were all our cries for more.

And do not think he failed to see

Or hear the backhand sniggers,

It’s easy mock, its easy jeer,

A mumbling, stumbling figure.

And when his struggle grew too hard

And he could no longer play

We left him in St Joseph’s Ward

And quietly crept away.