Weary Old Folk Tune

I am a weary old folk tune, it's ofttimes you've heard me
played,
Like when orders came one afternoon that we were to march
away,
From Bantry Bay down to Derry Quay from Galway to Dublin
Town,
To the Lowlands of Holland I've well and truly done the rounds.

Like when I told of three gallant poachers one March evening a
plan they made,
With trap and snare and with finger in their ear, by the
gamekeepers were waylaid,
For the singing of folk songs out of season straightway they
were condemned
To fourteen years transportay-she-aye-on unto Van Diemen's
Land.

Well as the ship it sped, we shook-ed our eds , and gay-zed
with a feeling rare,
Upon a ship that go-ed in the other direction saying "who are
that rabble over there?"
I said, says I "That's the Lancashire Lads, saying whatever shall
we do?"
Then before you could say "To me wack fol diddle eye day"
they'd nicked the bloody tune.

By now I totally confus-ed was to whom I did belong,
This melody to let, no lyrics yet, who'd be an old folk song,
An identity crisis for seven long years and only after intensive
counselling they set me free.
Only to be 'ad by Martin Carthy, three times on one CD.

Well I've been 'ad by half the regiment, given pleasure all
around the fleet.
Abus-ed by all and sundry-aye-ay from me nut brown hair to
me snow white feet.
I've been ad by the aristocracy, and by the rank and file.
It's time I was laid in the unquiet grave, like Lazarus to rise
again.