I was 18 when I came to town they called it the summer of love
Burning babies burning flags the hawks against the doves
I took a job at the steaming way down on Caltrim St,
Fell in love with a laundry girl that was workin next to me.


Brown hair zig zagged across her face and a look of half surprise,
Like a fox caught in the headlights there was animal in her eyes,
She said to me can't you see I'm not the factory kind,
If you don't take me out of here I'll surely lose my mind


Chorus:
She was a rare thing fine as a bee's wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child, she was runnin' wild (she said)
So long as theres no price on love I'll stay
You wouldn't want me any other way.


We busked around the market towns fruit pickin down in kent
We could tinker pots and pans or knives wherever we went.
We were campin down the Gower one time, the work was mighty good.
She wouldn't wait for the harvest, I thought we should.


I said to her we'll settle down, get a few acres dug,
A fire burning in the hearth and babbies on the rug.
She said Oh man you foolish man that surely sounds like hell,
You might be lord of half the world,You'll not own me as well

Chorus


We were drinking more in those days our tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run away when she took the rambling itch.
Last I heard she was living rough back on the Derby beat
A bottle of White Horse in her pocket, a Wolfhound at her feet

They say that she got married once to a man called Romany Brown
Even a gypsy caravan was too much like settlin' down
They say her rose has faded, rough weather and hard booze,
Maybe thats the price you pay for the chains that you refuse


She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
I miss her more than ever words can say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today.....
I wouldn't want her any other way

How's it goin' there everybody,
From Cork, New York, Dundalk, Gortahork and Glenamaddy.
Here we are in the County Clare
It's a long, long way from here to there.
There's the Burren and the Cliffs of Moher,
the Tulla and the Kilfenora,
Miko Russell, Doctor Bill,
Willy Clancy, Noel Hill.
Flutes and fiddles everywhere.
If it's music you want,
You should go to Clare.

Everybody needs a break,
Climb a mountain or jump in a lake.
Some head off to exotic places,
Others go to the Galway Races.
Mattie goes to the South of France,
Jim to the dogs, Peter to the dance.
A cousin of mine goes potholing,
A cousin of heres loves Joe Dolan.
Summer comes around each year,
We go there and they come here.
Some jet off to ... Frijiliana,
But I always go to Lisdoonvarna.

I always leave on a Thursday night,
With me tent and me groundsheet rolled up tight.
I like to hit Lisdoon,
In around Friday afternoon.
This gives me time to get me tent up and my gear together,
I don't need to worry about the weather.
Ramble in for a pint of stout,
you'd never know who'd be hangin' about!
There's a Dutchman playing a mandolin,
And a German looking for Liam Óg O'Floinn.
And there's Adam, Bono and Garrett Fitzgerald,
Gettin' their photos taken for the Sunday World.
Finbarr, Charlie and Jim Hand,
And they drinkin' pints to bate the band.
( why would'nt they for Jasus sake are'nt they getting it for nothing)

The multitudes, they flocked in throngs
To hear the music and the songs.
Motorbikes and Hi-ace vans,
With bottles - barrels - flagons - cans.
Mighty craic. Loads of frolics,
Pioneers and alcoholics,
PLAC, SPUC and the FCA,
Free Nicky Kelly and the IRA.
Hairy chests and milk-white thighs,
mickey dodgers in disguise.
Mc Graths, O'Briens, Pippins, Coxs,
Massage parlours in horse boxes.
There's amhráns, bodhráns, amadáns,
Arab sheiks, Hindu Sikhs, Jesus freaks,
RTE are makin' tapes, takin' breaks and throwin' shapes.
This is heaven, this is hell.
Who cares? Who can tell?
(Anyone for the last few Choc Ices, now?)

A 747 for Jackson Browne,
They had to build a special runway just to get him down.
Before the Chieftains could start to play,
Seven creamy pints came out on a tray.
Shergar was ridden by Lord Lucan,
Seán Cannon did the backstage cookin'.
Clannad were playin' "Harry's Game",
Christy was singin' "Nancy Spain".
Mary O'Hara and Brush Shields,
Together singin' "The Four Green Fields".
Van the Man and Emmy Lou,
Moving Hearts and Planxty too
Everybody needs a break,
Climb a mountain or jump in a lake.
Sean Doherty goes to the Rose of Tralee,
Oliver J. Flanagan goes swimming in the Holy Sea.
But I like the music and the open air,
So every Summer I go to Clare.
Coz Woodstock, Knock nor the Feast of Cana,
Can hold a match to Lisdoonvarna.

CHRISTY’S COMMENT

first performed in The Lawns, Belturbet the week before I was to go on before Rory Gallagher at the Lisdoonvarna festival in 1983.The original version was more chaotic and referred to a series of events that took place on the way down to West Clare.There was a break in to Portlaois prison to serenade friends,a savage feed at the old treaty stone diner in Limerick where a card school broke out and dickie rock went all in on a pair of threes.

"DO I HAVE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH PLAYERS AFTER THE GAME?
NO, ESPECIALLY AGAINST THEM(RANGERS)
I DONT HAVE TO LIKE THEM...... I DONT LIKE THEM THATS IT. I DONT LIKE THE CLUB, PLAYERS--END OF, THEY ARE ALSO KICKING US OUT OF THE PARK, BUT THE REF. DID NOT REACT TO BE HONEST. THATS A SHAME. THEN AFTER ALL THESE INCIDENTS, THEY ARE COMING TO ME AND THE REST OF MY TEAM MATES TO "SHAKE HANDS"
DEAR... OH... DEAR.
THEY SHOULDNT DO IT IF THEY HAVE ANY PRIDE LEFT IN THEM."

Words from a wise man. the holy goaly has a point fuck the rangers