Commemorative CD with cover design by Terry Quinlan of Pilot Media.
Includes unlimited streaming of Mór Mo Mholadh Great Is My Praise
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lyrics
You’ve heard that Robert Service yarn of
the shootin’ o’ Dan McGrew?
He makes of it a high falutin’ tale,
but it isn’t the least bit true.
He talks o’ McGrew and his light o’ love,
the ‘Lady that’s known as ‘Lou’’,
Why, that lady was most respectable, and
was married to Dan McGrew.
‘Twas a fearsome night, and we all sat
tight in the Malamute Saloon.
McGrew was playin’ at solo whist,
While the pianist played a tune.
And Mrs. McGrew,who was known as
‘Lou’, was darning her old man’s socks,
While the miners were tryin’ to sell
‘dud’ mines on samples o’ quartz and rocks.
When out o’ the night, and
into the light of the Malamute Saloon
Came a stranger guy with a watery eye,
and a nose of a deep maroon.
He looked as if he’d been out on a jag for
several months and more-
His Adam’s apple was workin’ a lot
as if his throat was sore
Through swallerin’ Klondyke whisky,
which’ll burn a hole in a can;-
I tell you, sir, that this stranger was
a full-to –the –back-teeth man.
He called for a drink, and he dashed it
down, and it seemed to increase his daze,-
And his eye went wanderin’ round the room
till the pianist found his gaze.
Now that pianist,sir, was a high toned cuss -
he wasn’t no small town jay,
He never was known to wash his neck, but
Gawd, how that man could play.
He was playin’ a Grieg Sonata, when that
swivel-eyed stranger fool
Just fetched him a wallop behind the lug,
and took his place on the stool.
We none of us interfered, we paused to see
what the guy would do,
And Mrs. Mc Grew,who was known as
‘Lou’, she paused, and stared at him, too.
We waited to hear what that man would play,
for our tastes ran rather high,-
And anything less than the classical stuff
could never with us get by,
So we held our breaths in a silence tense,
and suffered internal qualms;
Would he play us Beethoven, Bach,
or Lizst,
or hand us a chunk o’ Brahms?
‘T was none o’ these!- on the grimy keys
he dropped his dirt-stained mitts,
And beat out the blare of a rag-time air
which shattered our dream to bits.
He played eight bars of the ghastly toon
did that watery-eyed galoot,-
And then in a flash, like a thunder crash,
the guns began to shoot.
We stopped his rag-time rhapsody,
and we pumped him full o’ lead,-
Reloaded our guns and shot again
until that hick was dead;
But of all the crew it was Dan McGrew
who never once his mark,-
For though he can drink like a kitchen
sink, he shoots like a Boston clerk.
Three of his shots found tender spots in
three of the boys around.
Another one shifted the Sheriff’s ear, and
it hasn’t as yet, been found;
But the worst o’ the lot was a rakin’shot
that tickled up Mrs. McGrew,
And you ought to have heard what that lady said,
that lady that’s known as ‘Lou’.
Still, the rest of us riddled that rag-time
‘boob’, as anyone ought to do;
But he’d be livin’ yet if we’d had to depend
On THE SHOOTIN’ O’ DAN MCGREW
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