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The Mountains of Mourne

[ Roud 18229 ; Ballad Index DTmtmour ; DT MTMOURNE ; Mudcat 14716 ; Percy French, ca. 1896]

The Mountains of Mourne is a song by Percy French about a homesick Irish emigrant in London writing home.

Meg Aitken sang The Mountains of Mourne at the King’s Head Folk Club, London, on 12 November 1969. This recording was included in 2012 on the Musical Traditions anthology of recordings from that venue in 1968-1970, King’s Head Folk Club. Rod Stradling noted:

Written by Percy French (1854-1920) and none of Roud’s 11 instances are from the oral tradition in Ireland!

John Roberts sang The Mountains of Mourne on his 1989 album Songs From the Pubs of Ireland.

George Duff and Adam Jack sang Mountains of Mourne on the 1994 Greentrax album Ceilidh House Sessions from the Tron Tavern, Edinburgh.

Ron Kavana sang The Mountains of Mourne in 2011 on the Ron Kavana and Friends album 40 Favourite Folk Songs.

Lyrics

Meg Aitken sings The Mountains of Mourne

Oh Mary this London’s a wonderful sight,
With the people all working by day and by night.
They don’t grow potatoes, nor barley, nor wheat,
But there’s gangs of them digging for gold in the street.
At least when I asked them, that’s what I was told;
So I just took a hand in this digging for gold.
And for all that I found there, I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

John Roberts sings The Mountains of Mourne

Oh Mary, this London’s a beautiful sight,
With people here working by day and by night.
They don’t sow potatoes nor barley nor wheat
But there’s gangs of them diggin’ for gold in the street.
At least, when I asked them that’s what I was told
So I just took a hand at this diggin’ for gold;
But for all that I’ve found there, I might as well be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

I believe that when writin’ a wish you expressed
As to how the fine ladies in London were dressed.
Well if you believe me, when asked to a ball
They don’t wear no top to their dresses at all.
Well, I’ve seen them myself and you wouldn’t, in truth
Know if they were bound for a ball, or a bath.
Don’t be startin’ these fashions now, Mary Machree,
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

You remember young Peter McLoughlin of course
Well he’s over here at the head of the Force.
I met him today, I was crossing the Strand
And he stopped the whole street with a wave of his hand.
And there we stood talking of days long gone
While the whole population of London looked on;
But for all his great powers, he’s mindful to be
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.

There’s beautiful girls here—Oh, never you mind—
With beautiful shapes nature never designed.
And lovely complexions all roses and cream,
But let me remark with regard to the same
That if at those roses you venture to sip
The colours might all come away on your lip.
So I’ll wait for the wild rose that’s waitin’ for me
Where the Mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.