Och, my name is Geordie Barnett, and for long has been the same,
And if I roved around a bit, I always homeward came,
For no matter where I wander, O, no matter where I roam,
There’s nothing seems so homely as a drop of tea at home.
I’ve been far down the country, and I had the best of crack,
Likewise the best of grub and drink, but I longed for to get back,
For Owenreagh hill kept calling, with a feeling in my bones,
Which made me long to get a drop, a drop of tea at home.
I’ve been to Gortin village and the place they call the the ‘Gap’,
Likewise the Boorin wood as well, and likewise to Lislap,
The scenes around that village fair, for grandeur stand alone,
But still I’d rather have the tea, a drop of tea at home.
I’ve been at times in Donegal, along the Swilly fair,
And likewise to the Grianan high, to see the scenes that’s there,
I’ve been to Rosapenna too, hard by Sheephaven bay,
Where all along the stricken rocks, the mighty breakers play.
Around Rosquill peninsula, the scenes are more than grand,
You only find such beauty spots in dear old Ireland,
It’s there I gazed in wonder, though I did not stand alone,
But still I’d rather have tea, a drop of tea at home.
O, Mulroy Bay it winds along with inlets here and there,
The beauty of the scenery could drive away my cares,
And Letterkenny girls are fair, O, the finest in my knowin’,
But the would seem more lovely if they made my tea at home.
O, no matter where I wander, that feeling comes along,
It’s singing through my framework, like the rhythm of a song.
Let me be on the mountain high, or valley lying low,
The call of home comes back to me, no matter where I go.
But that is nearly over now, except for summer sport,
For many days now lie behind, and my time is getting short,
So I ‘hurkle’ over the fire in the kitchen all alone,
And the only comfort I have got, is a drop of tea at home.
(4th January, 1959)
George Barnett 