Near to Banbridge town, in the county Down,
one morning in July.
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Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen
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and she smiled as she passed me by.
Oh, she looked so neat, from her two white feet,
to the sheen of her nutbrown hair.
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Sure the coaxing elf, I'd to shake myself,
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to make sure I was standing there.
Oh from Bantry Bay, up to Derry Quay,
and from Galway to Dublin town.
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No maid I've seen, like the sweet colleen,
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that I met in the county Down.
As she onward sped I shook my
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".
She'd a soft brown eye and a look
and a smile like the 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.
I've travelled a bit, but never
since my roving career began.
But fair and square I surrendered thee,
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.
At the crossroads fair I'll be
and I'll dress in my Sunday clothes.
And I'll try sheep's eyes and deludhering lies
on the heart of the nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I 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.