(Trad. Irish)


As I walked by the dockside one morning so fair
to view the still waters and take the salt air
I heard an old fisherman singing this song:
Won't you take me away boys, my time is not long.

REF: Wrap me up in my oilskins and jumpers,
No more on the docks I'll be seen.
Just tell me old shipmates I'm taking a trip, mates
and I'll see you some day in Fiddler's Green.

Oh Fiddler's Green is a place I've heard tell
Where fishermen go if they don't go to hell.
Where the weather is fair and the dolphins do play
and the cold coast of Greenland is far, far away.

Where the sky's always blue and there's never a gale,
where the fish jump on board with a swish of their tails.
Where you lie at your leisure, there's nothing to do.
And the skipper's below making tea for the crew.

When you get back in dock and the long trip is through
there's pubs and there's clubs and there's lassies there too
Where the girls are all pretty and the beer is all free.
And there's bottles of rum hanging on every tree.

Now I don't want a harp nor a halo, not me,
just give me a breeze and the swift rolling sea.
And I'll play me old squeeze-box as we sail along
With the wind in the rigging to sing me this song.