I was born in old Killarney
when I was very young.
I still recall the lullaby
my dear old mother sung.
Too ra loo ra loo ra, too ra loo ra rye
Too ra loo ra loo ra, hush now don't you cry.
Too ra loo ra loora, too ra loo ra rye,
Too ra loo ra loo ra, it's an Irish lullaby
Yes, I was raised in Ireland when I was small.
The girls they used to toss me like an Indian rubber ball.
Now I would not let them for fear they would let me fall.
Mother was superstitious, as Irish as could be.
She talked about little leprechauns and a thing she called banshee.
I listened to her stories from the time that I could lisp,
There was little men all dressed in green and a thing she called will-o-the wisp.
She said never be born on a Friday,
It is very unlucky day --
St. Patrick was born on Friday
when his mother was away!
As a boy growing up in Ireland, I was a sight to be seen,
I slid down the rocks and tore holes in my socks,
Then my mother would patch them with green.
Both father and mother were Irish so I was Irish too
They kept a pig in the parlor and it was Irish stew!
They believed in the luck of the Irish
and in kissing the blarney rock,
They claimed that the luck of the Irish
was hid in the green shamrock.
Dad had the wit of the Irish -- it was plain to see.
When I asked him if he were not Irish, did he know what he would be?
Sure I know begorra, I would be ashamed of myself, said he.
At times he would say the devil is dead, the devil is dead.
Oh, no, I said, he is not dead. I hear him in your blarney!
And buried into Killarney!