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Unsere Version des irischen Traditionals.
Star of the County Down
Near to Banbridge Town, in the County Down
One morning in last July,
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen,
And she smiled as she passed me by.
Oh, she looked so neat from her two bare feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair,
Such a coaxing elf, I had to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there
From Derry Quay up to Bantry Bay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I've seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.
As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling rare,
And I said, says I, to a passer-by,
"Who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?"
Oh, he smiled at me, and with pride said he
"That's the gem of old Ireland's crown,
Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She's the Star of the County Down."
At the harvest fair I'll be surely there
And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes
And I'll try sheep's eyes, and deludhering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke
Though with rust my plow turns brown,
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the Star of the County Down.
Near to Banbridge Town, in the County Down
One morning in last July,
Down a boreen green came a sweet colleen,
And she smiled as she passed me by.
Oh, she looked so neat from her two bare feet
To the sheen of her nut-brown hair,
Such a coaxing elf, I had to shake myself
To make sure I was standing there
From Derry Quay up to Bantry Bay,
And from Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I've seen like the brown colleen
That I met in the County Down.
As she onward sped I shook my head
And I gazed with a feeling rare,
And I said, says I, to a passer-by,
"Who's the maid with the nut-brown hair?"
Oh, he smiled at me, and with pride said he
"That's the gem of old Ireland's crown,
Young Rosie McCann from the banks of the Bann,
She's the Star of the County Down."
At the harvest fair I'll be surely there
And I'll dress in my Sunday clothes
And I'll try sheep's eyes, and deludhering lies
On the heart of the nut-brown Rose.
No pipe I'll smoke, no horse I'll yoke
Though with rust my plow turns brown,
Till a smiling bride by my own fireside
Sits the Star of the County Down.
