As a tangeant from the other slow air/song thread…
Can anybody recommend good recordings of traditional songs in English preferrably with a funny twist? The style is the solo performance type of thing not Christy Moore or Paul Brady. More along the lines of “The Tailor Ban” sung by Seamus Creagh.
Thanks 
Patrick.
One that springs suddenly to mind is ‘Dinny the Piper’ from Andy Stewart’s Take Her In Your Arms recording.
PD,
The CD that was done at Matt Molloy’s has at least one very funny song on it, sung solo, by what sounds to be an elderly gentleman…
the gist of the song is that yer man is dreaming about winning the lottery… “The Millionaire” I think it’s called …
are you after that sort of song?
Yeah, that sort of thing Thanks
Patrick.
Seamus Ennis’s album, Two Centuries, has 6 or 7 songs collected/sung by him, mostly in English. One or two of them are funny.
How about Sean 'ac Dhonncha singing The Whistling Thief? You might find that one apropos
“There’s Pat come over the hill…”
Since it’s on a Seamus Ennis recording, I’d assume “The Farmer’s Cursed Wife” and “There was an old Woman from Wexford” as pretty accessible.
Yeah, that’s a great song … I’ve been trying to remember that one for years…
Patrick.
And there’s another one called “the Politician song”, but I don’t know if it’s been recorded or not… a pretty funny one as well… I heard it on Connemara Community Radio one time…
cheers,
There are extremely hilarious songs by Con Ó Drisceoil. Here’s one you’ll know 
THE MILTOWN COCKROACH
(Con Ó Drisceoil)Oh, the West County Clare is a beautiful place;
Its people a charming and musical race.
'Tis pleasant to view it by car or by coach,
But a blot on the landscape is the Miltown Cockroach.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.The Miltown Cockroach is a martyr for beer.
His eye it is evil, his aspect severe.
He barks like a bulldog and kicks like a mule,
And he drinks and he fights and he plays game of pool.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.In Sweet Miltown Malbay one night in July,
I retired to my bed as the sunrise was nigh.
Established in comfort with grunts and with yawns,
I shortly was dreaming of tunes and rabhcáns.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.But I woke with a start after two hours or so
To a loud crunching noise coming from my big toe.
This insect most foul then came into my view.
On the sole of my foot he proceeded to chew.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.So I jumped from the bed with a terrible screech,
Saying, “Mister Cockroach, of the law you’re in breach.
On a citizen’s blood you may not slake your thirst
Without gaining the donor’s approval at first.”
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.“Of the legal position,” says he, “I have doubt,
For this blood is at least fifty-eight percent stout.
So stop quoting law, and lie down again quick,
Till myself and my buddies conclude our picnic.”
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.I tried to sweet-talk him with eloquent chat,
Saying, “A gourmet like you should know better than that.
Look at my carcass. 'Tis scrawny and tough,
While of plump tender youths there are surely enough.”
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.Says the cockroach, “You speak like a poet and a sage,
But truly you don’t taste too bad for your age.
My friends have decided that here we will dine,
While the meat isn’t great, sure the pickle is fine!”
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.So I tackled those insects with brain and with brawn.
We struggled and tore at each other till dawn.
I fought them with bites and with blows and with kicks.
I tried burning and drowning and all sorts of tricks.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.But that offspring of Satan came at me in gangs,
Snarling and showing me their venomous fangs.
They crawled from the ditches and out of the sewers,
Ten thousand or more of them six-legged hoors.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.They covered the ground like a black shiny sheet
Till I knew it was time for to sound the retreat.
I turned and ran, full of loathing and dread,
And from Sweet Miltown Malbay that morning I fled.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.Oh, the black widow spider is not a nice toy,
And the African cobra is one ugly boy;
But both of them surely are cuddly and fair
Compared to the man-eating cockroach from Clare.
Rally ra fol the doh, rally ra fol the dee.
, Fintan Vallely has done a few too (he was over one night a few years ago and sang a very funny one about the then headlining Ben Dunne affair):
"There was low Dunne and high Dunne and under Dunne and over Dunne … "
Eugene Lambe’s song about Martin Rochford’s Queen Bee, there is another hilarious one about Robbie McMahon form Spancil Hill who found an old stash of gelignite and a few handgrenades in his shed (on’t ask long story) and how the explosives squad dealt with it. It’s ‘the other, real Spancil Hill’ I have heard it announced.
Ofcourse there the good auld one about Drumsnot, 
:
DRUMSNOT
(Brian O’Rourke)Oh come all ye pleasant fellow peasants and listen to my song
It has twenty verses and what’s far worse is, it’s three times as bad as its long
Oh lend me your ears while I spill the beans about the place where I was got
For its likely that you haven’t much of a clue, about th place they call DrumsnotWhere my birthplace lies beneath Irish skies isn’t easy to explain
Its not in the Pale or the Golden Vale , nor yet in the Central Plain
It affords no view of mountains blue and it sure is no beauty spot
And to date no county has claimed the bounty for admitting it owns DrumsnotOh, on Inishcarra and Gougane Barra, on Macroom and on Omagh Town
God poured out air of a fragrance rare that gained them high renown
On King Williamstown He showered sweetness down, on Lough Neagh and Glanlee and the lot
But those rare perfumes were all well consumed by the time that he reached DrumsnotAh but savage Nature, that lavish creature, Drumsnot did not neglect
For its stony fields with hoary weeds are gaudily bedecked
Them thistles, thorns and bouchalawns would be an ugly blot
Upon the face of any place – excepting dire DrumsnotAnd all around wildlife abounds and leaps and creeps and crawls
And prowls and scowls and growls and howls, and fights and bites and bawls
And shrieks and yells and reeks and smells and kills and the devil knows what
And the ould triangle goes strangle-mangle, in the jungle around Drumsnot.Now to sing of the birds, sure I have no words to express just how I feel
For the sweetest notes in their cheeky throats are the five pound notes that they steal
The sly magpie he rules the sky and ruins every garden and plot
And every songster is a fully-fledged gangster on the rampage around DrumsnotOh, we have no fleadh, we’ve no cine-MAH for to goggle at spectacles lewd
And Tim Lyons couldn’t grouse about our eating-house that never heard tell of fast food
We’ve two broken down bridges infested by midges – and a gaming machine with no slot
And the meanest street between Kansas and Crete is the main street of Drumsnot.Oh now you might guess that Drumsnot’s a place where old customs they are held dear
And you’d be right for our faction-fights halve our numbers every year.
But our Gaelic tongue you’ll as soon hear sung as the speech of the Hottentot
In fact we’re distinguished for unspeakable English in the backwaters of Drumsnot.Oh in Ireland’s fight for her birthright we had no glorious share
For the Black and Tans with their trucks and guns never knew that we were there
Now they’ve gone away and 'tis sad to say, things haven’t changed a jot
For in Leinster House neither Minister nor mouse, gives a sugar about Drumsnot.Our hedge-master died in eighteen-o-five and since then we have had no school
And for all we see of C.I.E we might as well be in Kabul
Ah but soon we might get th’oul electric light – and then again we might not
And the Christmas mail arrives without fail – around Easter in Drumsnot.Oh a telephone kiosk or a Shi’ite mosque would be equal novelties there
So our smoky signals and dopey pigeons our urgent messages bear
And no motor car has yet got that far for the Spring Show could justly allot
For sheer scope and size a major prize to each pothole around Drumsnot.We’ve no B & B’s, no facilities for the stranger touring round
No Cead Mile Failte in your tracks will halt you if you tread on our tainted ground
If you’re tracing your ancestors in parish registers, I’m afraid you won’t here find a lot
Ah sure japers we barely can point out our parents in the shambles they call Drumsnot.If you’ve a low opinion of our dominion, please don’t broadcast your point of view
For although the locals are yobs and yokels, they have their fine feelings too
A bass-baritone weighing twenty-two stone dropped a hint that we weren’t too hot
Well, he sang falsetto as he left our ghetto and staggered away from Drumsnot.Oh 'twas in Drumsnot I was begot and there I squandered my boyhood days
And my youthful deeds they now recede in an alcoholic haze
When I grew a man, I drew up a plan and teamed up with a well-endowed mot
Her father owns the Rag and Bones – that’s the only pub in Drumsnot.By the effluent pump near the rubbish dump, I courted her right well
And we got engaged within seven days for she couldn’t stand the smell
Then came the day in the month of May when we tied the fatal knot
And the wedding do was crubeens for two in the eating-house of DrumsnotNow we live in a cabin with the thatch in ribbons and the rent we can barely pay
And all the roses around the door won’t keep the wolf away
And all my dreams of pints so creamy , alas they have come to naught
For supplies of stout they did soon run out in the only pub in DrumsnotOh I wish I was far from the Shamrock Shore in some place where I might find work
And I tried of late for to emigrate – but I missed my lift to Cork
So to settle down in my native town has become my doleful lot
And to sink my roots and my hob-nail boots in this dungheap they call DrumsnotNow as you all know, some years ago, big blundering Uncle Sam
Tried to lift fifty-one of his native sons held hostage inside Iran
Ah but isn’t it strange when 'twas all the rage, that the whole bloody world forgot
To break in and let loose us hundred and two poor hoors, marooned inside in Drumsnot.Now, at last I must conclude, arrest and terminate this desperate ditty
And I hope you good people true by now feel for me some pity
And when at last my life is past and my bones have to moulder and rot
I pray God on high they won’t have to lie in the cemetery of Drumsnot.
Didn’t someone do a skit of the Green Fields of France? One in which they give out bangs to Willie McBride ?
Does “Donald Where’s Yer Trousers” Count? 
There’s a collection out not too long ago by An Góilín called “Around the Hills of Clare”. The songs are in English, mostly sober, but there’s a recitation called “The Battle of Billingsgate” which is quite good. There’s a collection out called “Hidden Fermanagh” which has a couple of very funny songs in it.
Then there is the perennial favourite, “Why Paddy Can’t Come to Work Today”. The lyrics are available on Mudcat.
djm
What the heck, here’s another one:
The Spoons Murder
by Con O’DrisceoilIn the tavern one night we were sitting
I’m sure ‘twas the last week in March;
From our drinks we were cautiously sipping
To ensure that our throats didn’t parch.
We played music both lively and dacent
To bolster our spirits and hopes,
And we gazed at the females adjacent
And remarked on their curves and their slopes.Til a gent wandered into the session
And decided to join in the tunes:
Without waiting to ask our permission
He took out a large pair of soup-spoons.
Our teeth in short time we were gritting
As he shook and he rattled his toys,
And the company’s eardrums were splitting
With his ugly mechanical noise.Hopping spoons off our heads to provoke us
He continued the music to kill;
Whether hornpipes, slow airs or Polkas
They all sounded like pneumatic drills.
Then he asked if we’d play any faster
As his talent he wished to display
With a grin on the face of the bastard
Like the cat as she teases her prey.Our feelings by now were quite bloody
And politely we asked him to quit
We suggested s part of his body
Where those spoons might conveniently fit.
This monster we pestered and hounded
We implored him with curses and tears,
But in vain our appeals they resounded
In the desert between his two ears.When I went out the back on a mission
He arrived as I finished my leak
He says “this is a mighty fine session
I think I’ll come here every week”.
When I heard this, with rage I was leppin’
No more of this torture I’d take
I looked ‘round for a suitable weapon
To silence this damn rattlesnake.Outside towards the yard I did sally
To find something to vanquish my foe.
I grabbed hold of a gentleman’s Raleigh
With 15 speed gear and dynamo.
Then I battered this musical vandal
As I shouted with furious cries
“My dear man your last spoon you have handled
Say your prayers and await your demise.”With the bike I assailed my tormentor
As I swung in a frenzy of hate
Til his bones and his skull were in splinters
And his health in a very poor state.
And when I was no longer able
I forestalled any last minute hitch
By removing the gear-changing cable
And strangling the sonofabitch.At the end of my onslaught ferocious
I stood back and surveyed the scene.
The state of the place was atrocious
Full of fragments of man and machine.
At the spoon’s players remains I was staring
His condition was surely no joke
For his nose was clogged with ball-bearings
And his left eye was pierced by a spoke.At the sight I was feeling quite squeamish
So I washed up and went back inside
Then I drank a half gallon of Beamish
For my throat in the struggle had dried.
Unpolluted by cutleries clattered
The music was pleasant and sweet
For the rest of the night nothing mattered
But the tunes and the tapping of feet.At the inquest the following September
The coroner said "I conclude
The deceased by himself was dismembered
As no sign could be found of a feud.
And the evidence shows that the fact is,
As reported to me by the Guards
He indulged in the foolhardy practice
Of trick-cycling in public house yards.So if you’re desperately keen on percussion
And to join in the tunes you can’t wait
Be you Irishman, German, or Russian
Take a lesson from his awful fate.
If your spoons are the best silver-plated
Or the humblest of cheap stainless steel
If you play them abroad, you’ll be hated
So just use them for eating your meals
Sort of to this tune:
A fiddler friend of mine from Sligo sings “The Bodhran song” (or something to that effect)
I don’t know of a recording, but I have a private recording of him singing it.
When I get around to it, I’ll send you the file if you like (it needs to be split still… long story)
Peter–Those were funny. 
And the ould triangle goes
Please don’t laugh, but I have come across this phrase in another context and I don’t know for sure what it means----is it the old bell?
Also, ever the one for correct terminology, is there a term used for these sorts of songs? I guess we have songs like that here, but I don’t really know if there is a special name for them, so maybe they are just called funny songs.
He says “this is a mighty fine session
I think I’ll come here every week”.
This reminds me of the “canary” playing the whistle sitting on Uilliam’s shoulder.
I really like that song about the guy who likes the Dublin girl who has a Portuguese boyfriend and ends up committing murder…(It’s a funny song, contrary to what you might think!)
Any recordings of that one out there?
Justine
I was talking to an academic recently who studied traditional cultures, and he took a very wide view of what a traditional culture was - for example, he made no distinction between the culture of classical music and what we would call ‘folk’ traditions.
But the point he made that was interesting was that he reckons almost all musical cultures end up generating material that is only for internal consumption - ie songs like these, which would go over 99.99% of people’s heads, or parodies of tunes that only experts on the tradition can actually recognise as parody. I forget what he called it (something very academic sounding) but he did have a fancy name for it. If I see him again I’ll find out for y’all.
Cheers,
Calum
That sounds interesting.
I’ve been singing this one a lot recently: When we meet on that beautiful shore, by Fiddlin’ John Carson
A very early recorded example of country music.
I went into the swell cafe
As hungry as a bear
And like a raving man-ic
I called for the bill of fare.
The waiter comes
Says what’ll it be?
Bring me a steak I say
He nodded his head, said OK
And slowly walked away.
And he never came back
No he never came back
'Though I waited an hour or more
His neck I will break
If he don’t bring me that steak
When we meet on that beautiful shore.
How about Willie Clancy’s “the Family Ointment”?
In a neat little cottage not far from the town
There lived a man called Marcus Brown
He was well to do had a neat little wife
But the want of a family caused great strife
With me randilum, fandilum, hi-diddle dandilum
Randilum, fandilum, hi-diddle day.
Things every day grew worse and worse
He consulted his mother’s old family nurse
“Kind Sir, don’t fret” was her reply
“Why don’t you the family ointment try.”
Being pleased with the news away he went
And bought a box of this ointment
Home he came without any delay
His wife took some the very same day.
Next morning to Mr. Brown’s surprise
His wife was ill and she could not rise
She lay in the bed and the midwife came in
She threw away two the dead image of him.
“Oh, Lord,” says he, “will she have another?”
when a drop of the ointment fell on his mother
“Oh, Lord,” says he, “will she have more?”
in less than an hour she had twenty four
And where he kept his cows and grass
Someone gave a daub to the big jackass
He lay by the ditch and they thought he was stole
He pushed at his sides, and he’s striving to foal.
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