STAR OF THE COUNTY DOWN         (Trad)

1:
        Am                    C      G
Near to Banbridge town in the County Down,
    Am           G     (Em)
One morning in July
       Am                  C        G
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen,
        Am            G         Am
And she smiled as she passed me by.
        C                        G
Oh, she looked so neat, from her two white feet
       Am                     G     (Em)
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair,
          Am                  C       G
Sure, the coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself
        Am         G        Am
To make sure I was standing there.

Ch:
         C                G
Oh, from Bantry Bay up to Derry Quay,
         Am               G      (Em)
And from Galway to Dublin Town,
   Am                      C        Am
No maid I've seen like the sweet colleen
       Am         C      Am
That I met on the County Down.


2:
As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling quare
And I said, says I to a passer-by,
'Who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?'
Oh, he smiled at me and with pride says he:
'That's the gem of Ireland's crown,
She's young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She's the Star of the County Down.'

3:
She'd a soft brown eye and a look so sly,
And a smile like a rose in June,
And you hung on each note from her lily-white throat
As she lilted an Irish tune
At the pattern-dance you were held in trance
As she tripped through a reel or a jig,
And when her eyes she'd roll, she'd coax upon my soul
A spud from a hungry pig.

4:
I've travelled a bit, but was never hit
Since my roving career began,
But fair and square I surrendered there
To the charm of young Rosie McCann.
With a heart to let, and no tenant yet,
Did I meet within shawl or gown,
But in she went, and I asked no rent
From the Star of the County Down.

5:
At the crossroads fair I'll be surely there
And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes,
And I'll try sheeps' eyes and deluthering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke
Though my plough with rust turns brown
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the Star of the County Down.