Oh, the sun came up on Ballymore,
fields of green and sky galore.
Cows were low and hens did cluck,
the day for the plow or a pint for luck.
The boys were singing,
hey,
ho,
round we go,
spin your partner,
don't be slow,
tap the boards and stomp the floor,
in the green fields of Ballymore.
Maggie's skirt was swinging wide,
her laugh could turn the ocean tide.
Johnny's boots kicked up the dirt with
a smile as broad as a Sunday shirt.
The whistle sang,
the fiddle cried,
the baron beat like a heart inside.
Singing,
hey,
ho,
round we go,
spin your partner,
don't be slow,
tap the boards and stomp the
floor,
in the green fields of Ballymore.
The moon crept in,
the stars took hold,
but still we danced,
young and old.
A pint for you, a toast for me,
to the sweetest land by the Irish sea.
Hey,
ho,
round we go,
spin your partner,
don't be slow,
tap the boards and stomp the floor,
in the green fields of Ballymore.
Hey,
ho,
round we go,
spin your partner,
don't be slow,
tap the boards and stomp the floor,
in
the green fields of Ballymore.