Pat Tobin - The Jolly Farmer Lyrics

I am a jolly farmer, I've been farming all of me life
I live on 40 acres with me parents and me wife
We have three delightful children, the oldest one is four
We're happy and contented, we ask for nothing more

But me cousins up in Dublin, they won't leave us alone
On telly and on radio, you would hear these people moan
They want to tax the farmers and some of them declares
Them farmers down the country are a bunch of millionaires

Tis grand to be a farmer till the hens refuse to lay
And the rain that falls in summer time destroys your fields of hay
And the curse of brucellosis hits your lovely herd of cows
And the queer disease you can't pronounce makes bacon of your sows
With prices fluctuating, with nothing guaranteed
The farmer has his worries when he's many mouths to feed
So come all ye loyal Dublin folk the farmer is your friend
Don't criticise him further or you'll drive him 'round the bend

Bring in that bloody dog Mary, he'll drive the sheep to the country

The farmer grows potatoes and saves them from the blight
And he brings them up to Dublin and he's travellin' half the night
His prices can be paltry when he's paid for all the trips
But he's happy for the city folk, they can have their fish and chips

The pigeons eats his cabbage, the crows devour his wheat
There's a levy on his creamery and another on his beet
If he gets a spell of sunshine his grass could turn to brown
And the carrot fly gets busy on the carrots in Clonown

Tis grand to be a farmer ' till the hens refuse to lay
And the rain that falls in summer time destroys your fields of hay
And the curse of brucellosis hits your lovely herd of cows
And the queer disease you can't pronounce makes bacon of your sows
With prices fluctuating, with nothing guaranteed
The farmer has his worries when he's many mouths to feed
So come all ye loyal Dublin folk the farmer is your friend
Don't criticise him further, you'll drive him 'round the bend

Stand up at the gap Mar, keep the cows up in he high field

Me cousin up in Dublin have a job from 9 to 5
But the poor old farmers working every minute he's alive
If the cows require a midwife or the turkeys start to fight
He has to put on his overalls in the middle of the night

Sure Dublin can be Heaven if you stroll in Stephen's Green
The rich and poor are everywhere, there's plenty in between
We need each other badly if we're hoping to survive
So let's learn to live together and thank God we're all alive

Tis grand to be a farmer ' till the hens refuse to lay
And the rain that falls in summer time destroys your fields of hay
And the curse of brucellosis hits your lovely herd of cows
And the queer disease you can't pronounce makes bacon of your sows
With prices fluctuating, with nothing guaranteed
The farmer has his worries when he's many mouths to feed
So come all ye loyal Dublin folk the farmer is your friend
Don't criticise him further or you'll drive him 'round the bend