Be Our Guest Piano / Flute Sheet Music With Letter Notes by Alan Menken.

​Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane

It is of a nobleman's daughter, 
so comely and handsome we're told
Her father possessed a great fortune, 
full thirty five thousand in gold
He had but the one only daughter, 
Caroline was her name we are told
One day from her drawing room window, 
she espied a young sailor bold.

His cheeks were as red as the roses, 
his hair was as black as the jet
Young Caroline watched her own true love, 
she walked out and voune Willie she met 
She said I'm a nobleman's daughter, 
possessed of great riches and gold
I'll forsake both my father and mother, 
and I'll wed with you young sailor bold
He said my fair lady remember, 
your parents you're bound for to mind
For in Sailors there is no dependence, 
they would leave their true lovers behind.

Be advised by your father and mother, 
and do by them what you are told
And never let any one persuade you, 
to wed with this young sailor bold
She said there is no one to persuade me, 
there is no one to alter my mind
I will dress and go off with my true love, 
and he will never leave me behind.

She dressed herself up like a sailor, 
and forsook both her parents and gold
Three years and a half o'er the ocean, 
she sailed with her young sailor bold
Three times as her true love was shipwrecked.

she always proved constant and true
And she did like a sailor her duty, 
in her jacket and trousers of blue.
Her father long wept and lamented, and the
tears down his cheeks they did flow
Until they arrived safe in England, Caroline
and her young sailor bold.

Caroline she went straight to her father, in her
jacket and trousers of blue
Her father first looked and then fainted, when
first she appeared in his view
She said my dear father forgive me, and
deprive me of riches and gold
If you grant one request I'm contented, 'tis to
wed with my young sailor bold.

Her father admired this young sailor, and he
bade them a sweet unity
Saying if life holds out until morning, it is
married this couple will be.
They got married in Caroline's portion, full
thirty five thousand in gold
They are now living happy and cheerful,
Caroline and her young sailor bold.

​Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane

As down by Bannas Banks I strayed one evening in May
The little birds in blithest notes made vocal every spray
They sang their little notes of love they sang them o'er and o'er
Oh grad mo croide mo cailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór

The daisy pied and all the sweets, 
The dawn of nature yields
The primrose pale and violets blue 
lay scattered o'er the fields
Such fragrance in the bosom 
lies of her whom I adore

Oh grad mo croide mo dailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór
I lay me down upon a bank
Bewailing my sad fate
That doomed me thus a slave to love
And cruel Molly's hate

How can she break the honest heart
That wears her in its core
Oh grad mo croide mo cailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór

Oh had I all the flocks that graze
On yonder yellow hill
Or lowed for me the numerous herds
That yon green pastures fill
With her I love I'd gladly share
My kine and fleecy store

Oh grad mo croide mo cailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór
Two turtle doves above my head
Sat courting on a bough
I envied them their happiness
To see them bill and coo
Such fondness once for me was shown
But now alas tis o'er

Oh grad mo croide mo cailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór
Then fare thee well my Molly dear
Thy loss I e'er shall mourn
While life remains in my fond heart
T'will beat for thee alone
Though thou art false may Heaven on thee
Tis choicest blessings pour
Oh grad mo croide mo cailin og
She's Molly Bán a Stór

​Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane


Mother a grá I am leaving you now 
To the war I am forced to go
To fight for the cause of my country dear 
Where the pretty green shamrock grows 
Tis sorry I am to be leaving you now 
But you know I'll return once more 
When the fighting is done
And the battle is won
To Killkenny by the nore

These words he spoke just at eventide 
To his mother so fond and true 
The tears fell fast as he took her hand 
To bid her his last adieu
Then stepping quickly he turned aside 
As he marched through the open door 
He heaved a sigh as he bade goodbye 
To Killkenny by the nore

The years sped along as one by one 
Fell each soldier so brave and true
Not a line from her son to his mother did come
From the lines where the bullets flew

Yet ever she prayed
For the one who had strayed
Yet she prayed heid return once more 
To the home that he left
Where in childhood he played
To Killkenny by the nore

The pale moon shone down on the battle field 
Where the battles were lost and won
The wild birds flew over the wounded heroes 
Who would ne'er see the morrow's sun 

And there in the quiet of a moonlit night
 A dying young soldier lay 
His comrades stood round As he lay on the ground
The words at length did say
Tell my mother how bravely I fought

And fell as a soldier may
With her picture held close to my bleeding breast
And my life's blood was ebbing away 
Tell her 'tis home never shall I roam 
I shall ne'er see her face anymore.

 Or the home that I left Where in my 
childhood I played To Killkenny by the nore
Slowly and sadly they laid to rest
In the spot where he fought and fell
No stone or no mark

O'er his cold narrow grave
His deeds or his bravery to tell
Tis there quite forgotten
He sleeps his last sleep
'Neath the shamrock he fought for of yore
Except for the one
Who is praying for him still
To Killkenny by the nore

​Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane


How sadly I'm thinking tonight of my sirelan 
Thinking of dreams and of days long gone by
 Memories of childhood so bright and so airy 
Comes rushing back to me with many a sigh 

I'm thinking of one whom I left far behind me 
In a little thatched cabin far over the sea 
Whose voice ever haunts me every night, 
noon and morning

Barney Darling won't you come back to me
Come back again to the land of the Shamrock 
Your old Irish mother awaits there for you 
And when friends and companions will turn and desert you

There's a place Barney darling in the old home for you
When I left the old home twenty years last December
I kissed them and bade them goodbye at the gate 
When somebody whispered her eyes filled with tears

A kind and a gentle voice told me to wait 
Her blessing she gave me with a kiss full of sorrow
The tears down her cheeks, sure I plainly could see
Her voice ever haunts me every night, noon and morning

Barney my darling won't you come back to me
Come back again to the land of the Shamrock 
Your old Irish mother awaits there for you 
And when friends and companions will turn and desert you
There's a place Barney darling in the old home for you

​Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane

A soldier stood in the village street and bade his love adieu
His gun and knapsack on his back his company in view
With tears he kissed her once again then turned away his head
He could but whisper in his pain and this is what he said

Love dear, Love be true, be only mine When the war is o'er 
we'll part no more At Ayr on the Rhine.
As they marched along through the village street
Their banners floating gay

The children cheered the tramping feet that went to the war away
One among them turned around once more to look again
Though his lips gave out no sound his heart sighed this refrain
Love dear, Love be true, be only  mine When the war is o'er 

we'll part no more At Ayr on the Rhine.
In the battlefield the pale cold moon was shedding its peaceful light
Shining on a soul on its last eternal flight Amid the 
dying a soldier lay his comrades close at hand

He said when I am far away and you in your native land
Say to my love be true, be only only mine When the war 
is o'er we'll meet no more At Ayr on the Rhine.

Recorded by Rita And Sarah Keane

Lord Donegal he stood at his own hall door 
Brushing his milk white steed
When he was observed by his own true love 
Who hastened to wish him God speed 

Saying where are you going Lord Donegal she said
Or where are you going from me
I am going to New England my Queen Isabell 
Some other strange country to see.

When will you return Lord Donegal she said 
When will you return to me
When a day and a year has passed and gone 
I'll return and get married to thee.

That is too long Lord Donegal she said 
That is too long for me
For you might forget your own Queen Isabell 
And pick up some other lady.

Then he had not gone but a very short time 
A day and a half a year
When sorrow and trouble came into his mind
In vain could he seek his own dear

And as he was returning all alone 
Riding his milk white steed
He heard the sound of a peaceful bell 
And the ladies all mourning there been
 
Saying who is it that is dead on today 
And is going to be buried on tomorrow 
It's the King's only daughter the ladies 
replied And they called her Queen Ann Isabella.

Then he ordered the coffin right open to be 
And the shrouds to be torn down
Whilst he fell a kissing her pale cold 
pale lips As the tears came rolling down

Saying now as I've kissed your cold pale lips
And you can never kiss mine
A vow and a promise I'll make on to you 
That I'll never kiss any but thine.

Then one of them died as if on today 
And the other as if on tomorrow
Queen Ann Isabell died out of true love
Lord Donegal he died out of sorrow

One was buried in St Mary's church
And the other in Mary's choir
Over Queen Isabell there grew a red rose
And over her lover a brier

They grew, and they grew to the church
steeple top
Until they could grow no higher
And they knotted together in a true lovers knot
For all the world to admire.

​Interview with James Fernley And Spider Stacy For - NERVE, AUGUST 1986
The latest saviours of rock and roll limped into Toronto, their bus having broken down at some indeterminate point outside the city. What are you going to do after they finish the tour? the driver, a crusty Southerner, was asked. "Fumigate the bus," he answered.

Lucky even to get an interview, I encountered not the lead Pogue, Shane MacGowan of the dental disaster fame, but James Fearnley, accordionist, and Spider Stacey, tin flute virtuoso. Fearnley, a rail of a man with the casual demeanor of a private school history tutor, seems to have cornered the market on dignity among the Pogues. He also manages to play a squeeze box with the same savoir cool that Keith Richards brings to the guitar. Stacey is a different kind of bird. Wearing a tie with a shirt shorn of its buttons, he comes off as a bit bar-worn. Wielding cockney sarcasm with the ease of a habitual joker, he would often find occasion to hiss out a glottal, mischievous chuckle, sounding not too unlike Ernie on Sesame Street.
Well into the interview, when I felt them to be a bit at ease, I had to bring up the issue that trails the Pogues from interview to review to interview: booze.

"I've got a bit fed up with it, as a matter of fact," James says, obviously hoping to end the matter there.
"We drink," Spider adds, "but so do most other people. We don't drink a particularly large amount."
"I suppose when we started off we did drink quite a lot," James says, resigned to addressing the subject once more. "When you're new to anything you sort of..."

"Actually that's wrong. Some of us have been in groups that made quite a habit of getting drunk before going on stage." "Well, yeah, I was including them."
"I've seen you drink on stage with the Nips before so don't give me that bollocks"
"I was never drunk on stage with the Nips."
"OH JAMES! WASH your mouth out with SOAP!" Spider squeals in the voice of an enraged Southern school marm. "THAT'S A BLACK LIE!" Spider leans back laughing, then continues with an ironic drawl. "Okay, James was never drunk on stage with the Nips...I was always drunk on stage."

We continue on the drinking debate until Spider pinpoints where the inevitable "Pogues-as-drunken-music" conclusion chafes him:
"It's a kind of racism, really. The whole 'drunken Paddy thing. It's a bit insulting."
The Pogues do make good drinking music, but so do Buckwheat Zydeco, Elmore James, Black Flag, and Johann Sebastian Bach. The Irish are reputedly a drinking people, but so are the Germans. The Pogues recurring battle with the boozy metaphor should stand as a warning for the first polka-punk band that finds itself signed to a major label.

As for the appeal of the Pogues, it would be facile to say that their music struck an ancestral chord in me. Rather, the Pogues have found a new way to tackle this beast called rock and roll, an enigmatic creature with the ability to sprout new limbs where ever it is hit. If bands like the Pogues continue their assault, pretty soon we won't recognize the thing, and that is undeniably good.

In the absence of Shane, his presence is inevitable in any discussion of the band's creative machinery.
"I remember sitting around at some girl's flat with Shane," Spider recalls, "and he was fiddling around with the guitar, and he started singing "Paddy on the Railway' which is an old Irish number, one of the cover versions we do, but he started doing it really, really, fast. It was on this Dubliners album we used to listen to. This was a while before the Pogues started and it definitely must have sparked something in Shane's mind. The way he does things-there's the input, and the moment it goes in, everything starts to go into gear. The actual output might not appear till nearly a year later, or suddenly it'll be there. I think he likes to take his time with things."

Another comer stone of the Pogues' reputation is the manic energy with which they approach live shows. Certainly, on record, songs like "Waxie's Dargle,' 'Down in the Ground Where the Dead Men Go' and The Sick Bed of Cuchulain' give the game away, strongly suggesting a powerful live presence. "The fact we play all fast, I think that's simply because it hasn't occurred to us to do it any other way." Spider says.. "don't think we could have done it any other way." James adds. "I don't think it comes out of our personalities to play as furiously as we do."

"I think it does," Spider says abruptly. "I think we're all fu..." "...You think we're all fusious? I'm not!"
"Everybody's got a certain manic streak in them."
"Yeah, I'll give you that. That's true."
"With the exception of Terry (Woods), who's a different case entirely, everybody was really into punk. I think the vehemence
with which we deliver..."

"...is because at the beginning we couldn't play very well."
"We'd just try to disguise it."
"By just walking on and going BOOM! This is yours, we don't
want it anymore!"
James goes on to describe one of the band's best gigs, in Lon- don on St. Patrick's night.
"I was really tickled by one review of that night. I don't know who the journalist was, but he mentioned someone going into the toilets and he had one leg of his jeans missing, his left shoe missing, and no shirt on his back. We get all these clothes thrown on stage, we get shoes..."

"...We always get shoes for some reason. We've had one ora just one fucking bra. That was in France."
A side effect of playing even vaguely Irish music in a political climate as shaky as Britain is that a band like the Pogues are expected to answer for centuries-old problems in a three-minute tune. But this doesn't interest the band.
"We don't write songs that deal with specific political situations," Spider explains. "We do songs that are about broad issues. The general anti-war, anti-authority stance I think is implicit in what we do; it might not be stated but it's implied. It's not our business to make statements about (the Troubles in Northern Ireland). Everybody in the band has their own opinions, but that doesn't add up to the band having a particular platform."

Perhaps the best publicity the band ever received was in an interview with Tom Waits around the time his last album Rain Dogs was released. Asked who he listens to, he named a few terribly obscure people and then the Pogues, who he compared to rowdy Irish troubadors the Clancy Brothers. "They're like the Dead End Kids on a leaky boat...there's something really nice about them."
"That was great-we feel the same way about him. Not that he's like a drunken Clancy Brother-well I suppose he is like a drunken Clancy Brother. Maybe if he shaved that silly beard off. (laughter) It's a nice beard, Tom!"
"Maybe if he got rid of those alligator shoes."
The Pogues have gotten this far on what is perceived as a novelty, although from the band's account it seems to have been less intentional than that. As accidentally as they came upon Celtic folk-punk, it seems that they'll continue to absorb musical styles until, far from being a novelty, the Pogues could make an indelible stamp in rock history. Until then, they're more fun than being smuggled into a women's prison on a full moon, and while I'm at it, kiss me, dammit, I'm Irish.
The whole gang-MCA-Rick MaGinnis