The Merry Ploughboy
So we’re all off to Dublin in the green, in the green,
where the helmets glisten in the sun.
Where the bayonets flash and the rifles crash,
to the echo of a Thompson gun.
Well I am a merry ploughboy
and I plough the fields all day.
‘Til a sudden thought came to my mind
that I should run away. 
Well I’m sick and tired of slavery,
since the day that I was born,
so I’m off to join the IRA
and I’m off tomorrow morn.
I’ll leave aside my pick and spade,
I’ll leave aside my plough,
I’ll leave aside my old grey mare
for no more I’ll need them now. 
And I’ll leave aside my Mary,
she’s the girl that I adore. 
And I wonder if she’ll think of me
when she hears the cannons roar. 
And when the war is over
and dear old Ireland is free.
I will take her to the church to wed
and a rebel’s wife she will be.