The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh; it’s coming home.
Begun in Mullingar where heifers roam.
1951 in humble circumstance.
When times were hard and drawers were underpants.
When men with pitch forks saved the hay.
And women in long skirts made the tae.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann made in Mullingar.
The first Fleadh spent in the bar.
Lyrics morphed into rambling fog.
The drunkest voice: the limelight hog.
‘This Fleadh will cause our music demise,’
The traditionalists said, hailing themselves wise.
‘No,’ said the founders, ‘ours won’t be ditched,
Instead, with ours, other countries’ enriched.’
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
Opening ceremony, the speeches yawned,
The President went on and on.
When musicians were primed and music was sought
That TnG guy to shut-up ought.
To Ruaille Buaille, thousands swelled.
Marque fantasia in car-park Greville.
Blackhall Gig had the easy manner.
But Fleadh Village, the biggest banner.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
Guards were there to arrest the hards.
Horses were there to rest the guards.
Predictions of small crowds became instant baloney.
The fields of Athenry were never so lonely.
Dublin’s still stuck in the rare auld times.
Reels and reels of diddli–i chimes.
Chorus of thousands engaging with pals.
The Fleadh’s the king of the festivals.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
People came from near and far,
By airplane, boat, foot and car.
Trains, buses, camper-vans.
Streets were jammed with sweaty fans.
Street musicians ubiquitous diddle discharge.
€6 Rock-Shandy, the Arts Centre charged.
‘Beef burgers: Beef to the heal.
‘Only €10, what a steal.’
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
Some said the cathedral’s not for trad.
Blasphemy to God this ceoltas fad.
Thirty Euro a throw for the epistles.
Sermons that week were tin whistles.
Accordions, bandjos, Bodhráns.
Masses of people, next to no amadáns.
Litter volunteers pounced on every chuck.
There was no instant of town amuck.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
The contests, a myriad of last minute prinks,
Costumes aligned to emphasize dance links
Girls in sparkly dresses lifting high leg.
Breakfasts of paracetamol and nary an egg.
Long begotten friends from ancient past.
Hot August memories to forever last.
Loads of chit chat, gallery and mirth.
But nobody went to Red Earth.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
The Monday after, a motorist in heat.
Cursed me for walking the centre of street.
I say, let’s be permitted to walk the middle.
To the vibrant strains of everyday fiddle.
All involved sang from the one hymn sheet,
A million came to the terpsichorean treat.
Come back again, sweet music day.
Yes. Mullingar 23 was on her way.
The Fleadh, the Fleadh, the Mullingar Fleadh.
There’s nothing quite like it for ooh-la-la.
