> Folk Music > Songs > Mrs Mulligan, the Pride of the Coombe

Mrs Mulligan, the Pride of the Coombe / Biddy Mulligan

[ Roud 16250 ; Ballad Index OLoc230A ; DT BIDDYMUL ; Mudcat 115394 ; trad.]

Dáibhí Ó Cróinín: The Songs of Elizabeth Cronin Colm O Lochlainn: Irish Street Ballads

Dominic Behan sang Biddy Mulligan in 1959 on his Topic album of Irish street ballads, Down by the Liffeyside. He noted:

This a music hall song of the last century. A great favourite in Ireland.

Fraser Bruce sang Biddy Milligan in 1972 on his Nevis album Shamrock and Heather.

Frank Harte sang Biddy Mulligan in 1975 on his RAM album And Listen to My Song. He noted:

Due to its long association with Jimmy O Dea this song lost its position in the Dublin tradition and was adopted predominantly by the music halls. However it tells of an important aspect of Dublin which is fast disappearing, already Biddy’s pitch in Patrick Street is long gone and at the moment it is likely that she will be driven from Moore Street as well, but one hopes that with a bit of luck she will survive the planners of the impersonal city centre.

Lyrics

Frank Harte sings Biddy Mulligan

I’m a buxom fine widow, I live in a spot
In Dublin, they call it the Coombe.
My shop and my stall are laid out on the street
And my palace consists of one room.
At Patrick Street corner for forty-five years
I’ve stood there, I’m tellin’ no lie,
And while I stood there sure nobody would dare
To say black was the white of me eye.

Chorus (after each verse):
You may travel from Clare, to the county Kildare,
From Drogheda right back by Macroom.
But where would you see a fine widow like me?
Biddy Mulligan, the pride of the Coombe, my boys,
Biddy Mulligan, the pride of the Coombe.

I sell apples and oranges, nuts and split peas,
Bananas and sugar sticks sweet.
On a Saturday night I sell second-hand clothes
And the floor of me stall is the street.
I sell fish on a Friday, laid out on a dish
Fresh mackerel and lovely ray.
I sell lovely herrings, such lovely fresh herrings
That once swam in dear Dublin Bay.

I have a son Mick and he plays on the flute
He belongs to the Longford Street band,
And ’twould do your heart good for to see him march out
When the band goes to Dollymount Strand.
In the park, of a Sunday, I cut quite a dash,
All the neighbours look on in surprise
At my grand Paisley shawl and my bonnet so tall,
’Twould dazzle the sight of your eyes.