Ah, Saturday night, packed and tight, all together in the big marquee,
when the man from the cork examiner comes up and says to me,
why do you keep coming back to the marquee every year?
Ah, the answer's plain and simple, Mick, the reason's very clear.
It's the reels in Ring of Skiddy, the jigs in Hall Bull Line,
the Ricky Lynch singing in the corner house, he's like a vintage wine.
It's the crack in Shirkin Island, the heck in Union Hall,
and the turbot cut upon Cape Clear, you can eat the bones and all.
On the banks, the banks, the beautiful banks, and the banks of the River Lane,
Saturday night, we're packed and tight, all together in the big marquee.
Puccini.
Puccini's in the Opera House, Karl Marx in the Cunley Hall,
Joe Macca's in the Arcadia, the two Norries are on the ball,
and Maggie Barry's on the cold cake, Jimmy Crowley on the rantantan,
Sound Isabel, Hank Waddell, and the maestro John Spillan.
Here's Katrina to me, coming up the mall,
to cook the penny dinner, to feed the great and small.
There goes Don O'Leary.
On the road to Sunday's well, up to the Cork Life Centre,
to ring the morning bell.
On the banks, the banks, the beautiful banks, and the banks of the River Lane,
Saturday night, we're packed and tight, all together in the big marquee.
I loves the English market, we all recall that scene,
when the well-known Cork fishmonger met Her Majesty the Queen,
he brought the cockles and the mussels, caviar and lobster tail,
the periwinkle drove the poor old Queen completely off the rail.
I took a wrong turn at Duncaddle, upon my soul,
I went down the Jack Lynch Tunnel, woke up in the Metropole,
all along McCurtain Street till I came to Patrick's Hill,
Big Noel said, keep coming back, I hope to God I surely will.
On the banks, the banks, the banks, the beautiful banks, and the banks of the River Lane,
Saturday night, we're packed and tight, all together in the big marquee.
On the lonely woods of Upton, the bays of Fairhill,
the piper of Crossbury, I hear him still,
I see the blood and bandage, when I hear the rebels sing.
I'm going against the Blarney Stone,
and the bells of Shandon ring.
On the banks, the banks, the beautiful banks, and the banks of the River Lane,
Saturday night, we're packed and tight, all together in the big marquee.
Harayudledaday, doodumdaw, dood lub, dudum dun, duam du,
Harl dum teedle didu tu, Catsire they sailed off with Tires growing pale,
Bye.