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
On Baldoyle shore when the midnight bell rings out from the village steeple,
And death has freed from its icy spell the graves of the graves grey people,
You may see the wraith of an old wrong done at a dead bank holiday meeting,
And one that must for his penance run until time is no longer fleeting.
You may linger awhile on Sutton Strand on Good St. Stephen’s Night,
And walk where the tall white grandstand gleams, in the moonbeam’s ghostly light,
And over the mourning of the surf, and thunder of the tide,
You may list to the rustle of a phantom crowd, and watch a dead man ride.
Long years ago in the bad old days, e’er you and I were here,
A racehorse there was called Typhus Bay, a chaser without a peer.
Full seventeen chases stern and grim he had won on Baldoyle shore,
And for the great Metropolitan race, all said he would walk o’er.
On the night before the race was run the sea rose mountains high,
And the surf at Sutton wet the stars, by dashing against the sky,
And while the torn seas raged from without like a fitful minute gone,
In a little cottage all by the sea, a dirty deed was done.
For here a tall bookmaker met the jockey of Typhus Bay,
And he said to him if you pull the race, a princely sum I’ll pay.
For if he wins I’ll be up to mine ears and that just cannot be,
So rub thee liniment on thine arms and pull this horse for me.
Small need to say that in the race the second raters fell,
While fence after fence jumped Typhus Bay to the crowd’s untiring yell,
Until the fatal final round the water jump was passed,
And only he and the grey mare Bess were left alone at last.
They jumped the last fence side by side in a silence you could feel’
And every man in the vast crowd said of a truth will the bookies squeal,
And then to their horror and their grief, the grey mare pulled away;
And passed that post one length ahead of the favourite Typhus Bay.
Now an ill deed finds its doer out and of a verity
That jockey swooned as he passed the post, and on the sward fell he,
And as I am a Christian man, God ‘twixt me and all harms,
In pulling the great horse Typhus Bay, he had broken both his arms.
Now the medical man who rolled his sleeves to set them there and then,
Was a student named O’Rhattigan, and you know these medical men,
He had his full half-yearly fee on the favourite Typhus Bay,
And the ill-fated jockey, who called the tune, did then the piper pay.
He died in terrible agony of a septic gangrened limb,
And for he acted a lie upon the earth the earth now lies on him,
And each and every St. Stephen’s night he rises from the tomb,
And takes the sceptre of Typhus Bay to a ghostly weighing room.
And there in front of a phantom crowd wherein the dim ghosts sit,
Of every man who ever had on, an odds on chance his bit,
Again he runs that ghostly race; again you’ll see him sway,
Again you’ll see the grey mare Bess in the last lap draw away,
And pass that post one length ahead of the favourite Typhus Bay.
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