A crowd of the boys were mopping it up in the Sandy Row saloon
as they sang to an old piano that was sadly out of tune.
The night was July the 11th and they made the rafters roar
with the most harmonious rendering of the Sash Me Father War.
Outside the blazing bonfires made the night as bright as day
and all the crowd were dancing in a wobbly sort of way.
They were shouting, they were singing
and all the din they made.
It nearly drowned the clanging of the Belfast Fire Brigade.
There was educated men among them,
cultured men you know,
men like Billy Bothwell from
the village of Drumbow.
A painter by profession but an artist to his friends.
He painted many a masterpiece and some Protestant gable ends.
There was poor wee Tommy Ferguson,
a prod from Donegal,
specially invited and beloved
by one and all.
A ballad singer as Tommy and singing still I hope.
He was well known throughout Ulster for his songs about the Pope.
There were shipyard men and dockers all with glasses in their hands.
There were transport men and fitters,
ay,
the toughest in the land.
And standing there among them and drinking
up her fill was a well-known local lady by
the name of Orange Lil.
But over on the corner a stranger sat alone.
Nobody paid no heed to him as the gate he
went on.
A tired and weary traveller he had tramped for many a mile,
and he just came
in to sit there and rest himself a while.
But Orange Lil soon noticed him as her sort
often does.
She went like and sat beside him and asked him who he was.
I am a very weary traveller,
but a civil one you'll find.
I just came in to hear the
crack now.
I hope the boys won't mind.
Now Orange Lil, for all her faults,
had a heart as pure as gold.
She turned to all the
fellas and said, Look,
some day we'll all be old.
So give this man a drink or two and
make him feel at home.
And so they did,
and soon the whisky and the beer began to come.
Then someone said to the stranger,
Come on and give us a song.
But the old lad said,
I'm sorry, Miss Singandays, I've done,
but I used to play the piano, and so if it's all
right,
I'd like to play some music in honour of this night.
His coat was all in ribbons.
You should have seen his hat.
His tattered sleeves were flapping on the keyboard as he
sat.
Everybody pitied him.
He was a sorry sight.
But I can't help remembering, but his
eye was kind of bright.
It wasn't very quiet in the pub, I needn't tell,
with the clattering
of the glasses and the gablin as well.
But as he started playing and the notes rose in
the air,
a mighty hush descended on the whole assembly there.
The shipyard men and dockers,
they never made a sound.
The transport men and fitters were rooted to the ground.
And
as the sweet notes tinkled on,
there came a deathly still,
and I even saw a tear roll
down the face of Orange Lill.
As long as I am on this earth,
I'll not forget that night.
I mind it just like yesterday,
a sad and a moving sight.
But the saddest part, I've yet
to tell.
I know a tear you'll shed.
Before the night was over, that poor old man was
dead.
Now he lies in his earthly grave,
away from worldly strife.
But up above his head,
a tombstone tells the story of his life.
It says,
here lies the bravest man he'll be remembered
long,
because one night in Sandy Row,
he played the soldier's song.